Threnody by Rossamund's side, Freckle would never come near. Strangely, irrationally, the young prentice felt safer with Freckle at their backs.
The day grew darker still and, as poor dead Splinteazle had predicted, it began to rain. Monsterlike shapes seemed to lurk and lunge in the gloom, phantasms made by the rapid fall of water. At least I have my hat, Rossamund thought bitterly.
A far-off cry-a shriek and a gabber-came from somewhere out on the flatland. It was an inhuman call, a monster's voice. Rossamund cringed at the noise and almost tripped, expecting any moment to be waylaid again. Though they were exhausted, desperation and blank terror set the two lighters running, a weary stumbling lurch, each helping the other if ever one flagged.
When the glimmer of the lights of Bleak Lynche hove in sight, Rossamund eagerly took up the flammagon and shot its spluttering pink fire into the air. The flare drew a high, lazy arc, the falling damps carrying it northward. It winked out as it fell on the downside of its curve. They had little hope of it attracting attention, yet it did: a ten- strong foray of the Bleakhall day-watch.
The band of lighters that found them could little believe what they were told: a whole cothouse slaughtered? Surely not! Several lampsmen gave shouts of lament. Scrutineers were sent to Wormstool, the sneakiest of the band, while Rossamund and Threnody were hustled back to Bleakhall. There the astounded Fortunatus the house- major conducted a hasty inquiry. He kept asking the same questions: 'What happened? Where are the other lampsmen? How is it just you two survived?'
Rossamund did not know how to answer except with the truth.
Fortunatus could not accept their shocking tale until the piquet of scrutineers returned, dragging Rabbit, braying mournfully, with them. These doughty fellows confirmed the blackest truth: a whole cothouse slaughtered; friends torn and all dead, the ransacked fortlet open to the elements. They brought with them body parts and several bruicles of cruor as proof, and offered one of these to the two survivors. 'So ye might mark yeselfs proudly!' they said.
Rossamund refused. The handing out of awards at such a time seemed so wrong to him-ill-timed and disrespectful. It did not occur to him that his feats would warrant a marking, maybe even four according to the grisly count that revolved ceaselessly in his mind.
'Not want a mark?' was the general, incredulous reaction. 'That ain't natural!' But they did not press him.
Threnody, however, gladly received the blood, and this was a great satisfaction to the other lighters. 'My first cruorpunxis,' she murmured, scrutinizing the bruicle closely. Either way, all agreed that Grindrod must have improved greatly in his teaching of prentices to raise such doughty young lighters.
27
Obsequy what we would call a funeral, also known as a funery or inurment. These rites typically include a declaration of the person's merit and then some traditional farewell given by the mourners. In the Haacobin Empire it is most commonly thought that when people die they simply stop: a life begins, a life ends. In the cultures about them and in their own past there have been various beliefs about afterlife and some all-creating elemental personage, but such notions are considered oppressive and outmoded. They would rather leave these ideas to the eekers, pistins (believers in a God) and other odd fringe-dwellers.
Given his own room in the Fend amp; Fodicar and saloop spiked with a healthy dose of bellpomash, Rossamund slept two days through after the attack, while outside the rain became a fierce storming downpour. He did not know till he had woken again that a dispatch had been sent to Winstermill informing them of the terrible things done at Wormstool and of the two young survivors. Neither was he aware that the loss of that cothouse had occasioned the temporary suspension of lamplighting along the entire twenty-five-mile stretch of highroad between Bleak Lynche and Haltmire. Nor did he know that Europe had returned from a course while he slept and after a brief inquiry into his health, left again, quick on the trail of the surviving nickers. How the young lighter wished she had been with them at Wormstool; what lives might have been spared with the Branden Rose at the task.
As he slowly awoke, eyes heavy and senses murky, Rossamund was gradually cognizant of a figure looming at his side. In fright his senses became sharp and he sat up swiftly, pivoting on his hands ready to jump, to run, to shout red-screaming murder. With clarity came truth and with truth came the profoundest delight. It was Aubergene-his old billet-mate-sitting by Rossamund's recovery-bed on an old high-backed chair, dozing now as if he had been waiting at the bedside a goodly while. Even as Aubergene's presence fully dawned on Rossamund, the older lighter snorted awake.
'Aubergene!' Rossamund exclaimed. 'Aubergene!'
'Ah, little Haroldus.' The older lighter grinned, though sadness lurked at the nervous edges of his gaze. 'Dead-happy news to find you and the pretty lass hale! I've heard from the house-major here how you won through. A mighty feat for young lighters.'
Rossamund swallowed a sob of relief. 'I thought y-you were killed with the rest!'
Aubergene nodded leadenly in turn. 'Aye, I suppose you would-but me and the under-sergeant and Crescens Hugh were sent out with deliveries for the Mama not so long after you went off with Splint.' He hesitated. 'Poor Splint, poor Rabbit…' He put his chin in his hand. 'We weren't anywhere nigh the Stool when those wicked unmentionable baskets did their worst there. We were still set on, though. We'd only just begun the return. Mama Lieger warned us not to venture out again, but we figured she was just feeling for some comp'ny.Yet we weren't more than half a mile gone when Hugh put his box on and, certain enough, kenned something odd in the air and had us hurrying back to the Mama's seigh with a whole handful of the blightenedest hob-boggers in chase.'
Rossamund listened with amazed relief, glad to hear that Mama Lieger was not to blame, glad to know that some had won through that day.Yet these three fellows had survived in that small high-house where the might of Wormstool had failed. 'How-how did you live through it?'
'We tried our aim from the Mama's windows and hacked at 'em by the door if they tried to shimmy up, Mama Lieger laughing and shrieking like a soul gone mad, poking at the baskets with this great long prod of hers.' A strange, troubled thought suddenly haunted Aubergene's brow. He looked to his right and hunched as if he was about to enter into a conspiracy. 'Rossamund,' he said low and halting, 'we-we was defended by other-by other bogles too.'
A chill shivered down Rossamund's scalp. His hearing whined. 'You were defended by monsters?'
Aubergene looked at him hard, almost aggressively, yet there was something pleading in his brittle gaze; he seemed more troubled by what he had just said than by the destruction of his billet-mates. 'It's not sedorner talk, Rossamund! I'm no bogger-loving basket-it's just what I saw with the same eyes that look on you now…'
'You'll never hear me call you a sedorner, Aubergene,' Rossamund answered, an image of Freckle flickering in his mind. 'I know there are kindly monsters…'
The older lighter's dogged expression loosened. 'Poesides warned Hugh and me about speaking on it,' he said in a grateful hurry, 'but I reckon the Mama might be right about you, Rossamund, that you do see things more in her way; I reckoned you'd not begrudge me what we witnessed,' he finished, almost imploring Rossamund to say it was so.
The young lighter gave a bemused, shrugging kind of nod. Rossamund would never cast a stone at the unusual revelations of another.
'I reckon them hob-possums fought for the Mama's sake,' Aubergene continued. 'Remember that little doll you said winked at you?'
'Aye.' Rossamund barely dared a wheeze.
'Well, you were right! It was a beastie-some weensome bogle-thing made of sticks and bits that's been just
