carefully, haltingly, squeezed a hand into his salt-bag, thankful for resorting its contents. He felt for the especially wrapped john-tallow-one of the unused gifts bestowed by Master Craumpalin when Rossamund was still a foundling starting out. He withdrew it with fastidious care lest the oiled paper make a give-away rustling of its own. Working it free of the bag, he put the parcel on to the road and gingerly grasped two corners of the complex folds of the wrapping, careful not to touch the actual wax. All this he did by feel alone, his eyes busy looking into the impenetrable fog, darting left and right at each new noise.
Before him he could hear Aubergene ever-so-gently cocking some kind of firelock.
The snuffler was getting closer.
On the other side, Threnody was a hardly discernible shadow-was that her arm he saw reach for her temple?
With a sudden flick of wrist and fingers, Rossamund pulled the wrapper apart, letting out the sweaty, unwashed smell, and, quick as fulgar's lightning, flung the john-tallow, packaging and all, out into the cloudy soup. He could almost feel the attention of the malignant stalker catch the smell and follow the invisible arc of the flying repugnant. Sure enough, the sounds of scuffling moved away.
Oh, glory on Craumpalin's chemistry! Rossamund's heart sang.
Aubergene did not appear to notice the young lighter's action and the lighters stayed as they were for longer yet-Rossamund's senses frayed, his haunches aching-till as a man, they decided it was safe enough to push on. Not one mention was made of his deed; none had noticed.The young lighter had no way of knowing if it was the john- tallow that drew the sniffing thing away, and therefore he kept any boasts to himself.
Unexpectedly, only two lamps later, the vertical bulk of Wormstool materialized-they were arrived at last. The cothouse-if it could be called a 'house'-was a tall octagonal tower topped with a flattened roof of red tiles a-bristle with chimneys. Entry was gained by the ubiquitous narrow flight of stone-and-mortar steps that bent about three faces of the tower as it climbed to a second-story door.
Rossamund held his breath and squinted against the noxious fumes drizzling from the smoldering censer at the foot of the steps.
At the top, the thick cast-iron door opened on to a watch room. Entering, Rossamund found an eight-sided hall, the walls slitted with loopholes, where watchmen periodically wandered from one to the next and mutely observed the land beyond. Not even the entry of the lantern-watch distracted them from their lookout.
In the very middle of the hall was a squat lectern, and behind this sat an uhrsprechman. Wet-eyed, limp- haired, the man looked all too ready for sleep, shuffling and settling papers clumsily at the close of his night-vigil. He watched the arrivals hawkishly, screwing up his face as he tilted his head back and peered over his glasses.
' 'Allo, Whelpmoon,' the stocky, hairy under-sergeant named Poesides said to the fellow as they passed. 'Ye look a mite piqued, me old mate. Just be glad you've not had to be out there this mornin': pea soup so thick that a laggard couldn't scry through it-and a stalking lurker thrown into the bargain.'
Whelpmoon nodded briefly, said nothing, and kept at his staring.
Looking beyond him, Rossamund saw a great kennel occupying three whole walls which kept a pack of dogs: spangled whelp-hounds-giant, sleek-looking creatures that eyed Rossamund suspiciously and let forth warning growls from their heavy-barred cage.
'Them daggies never takes to strangers,' Lampsman Lightbody chuckled.
From this room the lampsmen gained access to higher floors by a wooden stair at the left of the entrance. From it dangled a sophisticated tangle of cords and blocks, much as could be found on a vessel. Rossamund asked what these were for.
'Ah,' answered Lampsman Lightbody eagerly, 'these stairs are the genius of the major and Splinteazle our seltzerman-naval men, both of them, with cunning naval minds.' He nodded approvingly.
Rossamund's ears pricked at this mention of the Senior Service.
'It's dead-on impressive,' Aubergene added. 'You see there-that cord, how it leads up through that collet in the ceiling? If ever a nicker or some other flinching hob makes it in here and we need to retreat, we can pull levers up on the next floor connected to that cord and cause this whole construction to topple, leaving the foe stuck down here while we ply fire from on high.'
It was indeed 'impressive'-as an idea at least. No sooner had Rossamund ascended a few steps than the whole flight wobbled alarmingly, beams groaning, the rope tackle shaking. The lighters did not seem to notice, and climbed happily up to the floor above, while Threnody and he followed one careful step at a time, knuckles whitening on the worn-smooth banister.
Gratefully achieving the top, Rossamund heard Aubergene declaring, 'Our reinforcements all the way from Winstermill, sir-ain't it nice to know we're not forgotten?'
Rather than dwelling safely on the very top floor of the tower, as many officer-types might, Wormstool's Major-of-House held office in the very next level; working with his day-clerk on one side and cot-warden on the other, all seated behind the same wide desk of thick, hard wood. It looked solid enough to serve as barricade and fire-position should need arise. Rossamund could well imagine musketeers firing from behind it with their firelocks, shooting at some intruder who had managed to win its way up the rickety stairway.
The house-major was even better turned out than his subordinates-creaseless platoon-coat of brilliant Imperial scarlet and a black quabard so lustrous, with its thread-of-gold owl, it almost gleamed. The man was most certainly of a naval bent, for there were several scantlings of main-rams and cruisers pinned to the angled walls about him and a great covering of black-and-white checkered canvas on the floor, such as Rossamund would expect to find in the day-cabin of a ram. The house-major stood with a fluent, perfectly military motion.
'Miss Threnody of Herbroulesse and Rossamund Bookchild, Lamplighters 3rd Class, come from Winstermill Manse, sir,' Rossamund said firmly as he stepped before the immaculate officer.
The house-major fixed them with mildly skeptical amusement. 'Well, aren't you a pair of trubb-tailed, lubberly blunderers?' he exclaimed in a trim and educated accent that gave no hint to his origins. 'We've not received a brace of lantern-sticks in a prodigious long time, and neither have we received word to be expecting any! The dead of winter means infrequent mail and is an off time to be sending anyone so far-how long have you been prenticing for? I thought lantern-sticks weren't deemed fully cooked till chill's end.'
Rossamund and Threnody looked to each other.
Threnody spoke up. 'We were told that Billeting Day was done early because the road was in need of new lighters.'
'Is that rightly so?' Taking his seat, the house-major stared at her and, more particularly, her spoor. 'It is not common to have one of your species make lighter, especially not one that is a tempestine too-are you not a little too new from the crib to be cathared?'
Threnody bristled but controlled her tongue. 'Perhaps.'
The house-major held her with his steady gaze. 'As it stands, we are thankful the Ladies of Columbris have the numbers to spare us one here.'
Bemused, Threnody gave half a curtsy.
'As to what you have been told regarding us,' the officer continued, 'aye, new lighters we do need: a large quarto of doughty, veteran lampsmen to cover our losses, not a brace of new-burped lumps such as yourselves. Is that not so, Sergeant-Master?' he barked to the big, silver-haired cot-warden.
'Aye, sir.' The cot-warden smirked. 'Though a company of the same would be better.'
'I've heard it said that the marshal-lighter is ailing,' continued the house-major. 'Can he have decreased in his powers so much as to send you here?'
'Oh, it wasn't the Lamplighter-Marshal, sir'-Rossamund wrestled with the desire to cry out in the Marshal's defense-'it was the Master-of-Clerks who sent us.'
In one breath the officer's eyes widened, in another they narrowed. 'Did he…,' he said slowly. 'Since when has that lickspittle been sending lighters or directing policy?'
'Since the Lamplighter-Marshal was shipped off to the Considine with a sis edisserum in his hand and 'that lickspittle'-who now calls himself the Marshal-Subrogat-took the run of the manse,' Threnody stated tartly.
'Is that so, Lamplighter?' The house-major looked arch. 'And I'd rather you addressed me as 'sir' or 'house-
