their stout doors and the lantern-watch could seek refuge in them for well over a week: more than long enough, it was thought, for the monsters to lose interest and move on, or for a rescue to liberate the trapped.
To give them time to better accommodate to a lampsman's life the house-major decided to put Threnody and Rossamund under the charge of Splinteazle, Seltzerman 2nd Class. They would accompany him on many tasks, replacing bloom, refitting lantern-lights, cleaning panes-a task that always made Rossamund glum as he brooded on the plight of poor Numps. Whenever they went out a run-down flat cart went with them, its sagging planks laden with the necessary stocks of tools and parts.This cart was kept in a solid stone outbuilding attached to the back of the cothouse and was drawn by a he-donkey with incredibly large ears, which earned the poor creature the name Cuniculus-or 'Rabbit.' This stolid beast was kept in the cellar and brought carefully down the cothouse steps whenever he was needed. Rossamund greatly enjoyed the work, but Threnody did not and would stand by restlessly while they labored.
One cold, misty morning Splinteazle and his two aides set out to restock the basement found at the bottom of the lamp at East Bleak 36 West Stool 10. Haggard and blotched from a life spent at sea, his skull wrapped in a tight black kerchief-vinegaroon fashion-under his cocked thricehigh-Splinteazle whistled to the rising sun. Today he was in particularly good spirits, for today was Dirgetide, the last day of winter, which, apart from a great slap-up meal for mains, meant a season of fewer theroscades.
The delicate mist softened the arid land with its opalescent sheen, filling dells and hollows and runnel-beds with cloudy film. Gray birds with black hoods dipped and rose from perch to perch among the stunted swamp oaks, calling on the wing, giving their maudlin, churring songs to the hazy morning.
'Ahh,' muttered Splinteazle, staring at them, 'the sthtorm-birdsth are out: it'll be rain today, and our butts'th filled again with fresh water.' Missing his two front teeth, the seltzerman had a naval burr that was marred with a lisp.
For all the condensation, it was still a thirsty walk.Wearing his new hat and pallmain and wrapped in Europe's warm scarf, Rossamund had come laden with fodicar, his knife in its scabbard attached to his baldric, salumanticum and his own satchel holding a day's ration. He took a drink from a water skin.
'Here'sth a mite o' wisthdom for ye,' Splinteazle said, stooping to the roadside. 'I've stheen yee both take a sthecond and even a third gulp of ye water. At that rate ye'll have drunk it out and be wanting. A better way isth to avastht yer drinking and pick a pebble like I've got here and plop it into yer mouth to sthuck.' He did as he explained, putting a small, pale stone between his thin lips. 'Keepsth yer mouth watering and thirstht at bay.'
Obeying, Rossamund was amazed to find the advice was sound. On the verge as they walked, he noticed scattered many smooth pebbles, and wondered if they were made this way in the mouths of so many vanished generations of thirsty lighters working interminably up and down the road. With faint repulsion, he thought of how many maws the very rock he sucked on might have previously inhabited, and mastered the urge to spit it out.
They crossed the path of Squarmis plodding east on some cryptic errand. The costerman paid the young lighters no mind but engaged in insults with the seltzerman as they passed.
'Slubberdymouth!' Squarmis drawled in abusive greeting.
'Fartgullet!' Splinteazle returned without hesitation.
Only Rabbit was pleased to see the costerman, or rather the fellow's mean old she-ass, who nipped at Rossamund walking by. Braying and bellowing, the seltzerman's donkey tried to turn and follow the retreating object of its passion. Splinteazle fought to keep the brute beast's head pointed in the correct direction and stop Rabbit running off after his sweetheart.
'Lamplassth!' the seltzerman grunted as he wrestled his donkey. 'Help me hold the Rabbit. Nothing will turn him now, daft basthket! Bookchild! Go down to that sthwamp oak yonder and get me a branch. It'sth the only thing to move him.'
Rossamund spotted the appropriate tree not more than a dozen yards north off the highroad. With a dash he descended the side of the road and ran a lane through the thistles to the small swamp oak. He grasped a branch and tore it off with ease and saw yellow eyes watching from a gorse patch not more than five yards away. Pebble or not, Rossamund's mouth went dry.
'Freckle?' he called softly. The little fellow had survived. What is more, he was still watching out for him.
'Hurry there, lad!' came Splinteazle's urgent call.
The eyes disappeared with a rustle, and feeling both disappointment and elation, the young lighter hustled back to the road.
The seltzerman had spoken true: Rabbit adored the taste of swamp-oak needles more than even the she- mule. With Rossamund going ahead using the branch as a lure, the creature was induced to walk on.
'Poor old Rabbit,' Splinteazle chuckled tenderly, once the donkey was walking freely again. 'He'sth hopelessthly sthmitten on Assthanina-that'sth that filthy Sthquarmis fellow'sth lady mule, don't ye know-Rabbit goesth braying after her every time we're in town. Poor deluded fool of a donkey don't realizthe that Assthanina is not in the amorousth way.'
For Rossamund's part he wanted to keep looking out to the north into the scrub and try to spy Freckle.Yet he feared giving the persistent glamgorn away and forced his eyes to stay to his front.
When they arrived at the basement, the seltzerman took out a large cast-brass key and descended to unlock the heavy, narrow entrance to the stone-harbor. The lock and hinges whinged rustily and proved of little use. The inside of the basement was stuffy, cavelike and typically cramped. Though he could stand tall, Rossamund saw that Splinteazle was forced to move about in a ducking hunch. The young lighter examined the view from the tight slit of a loophole. The mist was coming in thicker, and he could not see more than a small arc of the road and flatland to the north.
They slowly unloaded the flat cart, which creaked in a kind of inanimate gratitude for the relief of the burden on its aged timbers and axles.
'Ye're sthtrong and quick for a wee lighter, lad, and that'sth the truth. Young Master Haroldus'th indeed!' To Threnody's sluggish unwillingness the seltzerman warned, 'Take up the sthlack, young hearty, and clap on sthome sthpeed; that'sth no way to stherve yer Emperor!'
'I might wear your colors, sir,' she hissed, snatching some small box, 'but I do not serve your besotted, bedizzled Emperor.'
'Besthotted, eh? Bedizzthled?' he said as she turned. 'Isth that what they taught thee in thy sthequethtury? What doesth ye think taking the Emperor'sth Billion meansth?'
The stores were kept under a trapdoor in a rough-cut pit in the back corner of the outwork. For each new puncheon or cask or crate they carried in, an old one had to be removed and taken up and put on the cart. Even with Threnody reluctant to do the task, restocking was completed quickly and the three were soon strolling home. Along the return, a shrill cry, brief and birdlike, pierced the gauzy stillness four times, tangible alarm in its echoes.
The three workers became very still.
Rossamund stared about, trying to see everywhere at once.
'It'sth a water hen,' Splinteazle stated in ominous whisper. 'They only cry when the worstht of blight'sth basthketsth are about. Sthomething wicked-foul musth surely be out there. We mustht hurry!'
Not much farther on, they found that East Bleak 41 West Stool 5 had been smashed: bent over like nothing more than a broken grass-blade, the lamp's still dizzing seltzer already soaking into the hard surface of the road.
The smell of monsters-the telltale stink of pungent musk and almost animal filth found them, floating on the quickening breeze.
'Hi,' Splinteazle exclaimed in the barest of whispers, 'catch a nosthe full o' that reek! They're sthurely sthome of the wortht bugerboosth ye're ever likely to hide from.'
The next lamp they discovered missing altogether, ripped footing and all from the verge.
'Desthtroying me lovely lampsth!' cried Splinteazle. 'Killin' me bloom!'
Rossamund became aware of a threwdishly unpleasant, impelling sensation buzzing behind his eyes. It grew with each step, spreading to the base of his head, to the core of his innards; an external, ambient yet powerful compulsion to act, to do something or else suffer displeasure. From who? Is Mama Lieger doing this?What am I supposed to do? Rossamund had no notion, but the dread of this sensation waxed terribly. Oddly, Threnody and Splinteazle did not appear to heed it.
And the closer they drew to Wormstool the stronger the bestial smell became.
