needed, will you not, man?'
'Most certainly, good lady.'
The fulgar drew forth a key from some secret place upon her. 'You must fit yourself appropriately for going forth on the knave with me.' A hint of kinder feelings played about the corners of the fulgar's eyes and mouth. 'What arts do you think will suit you in the stouche?'
Puckering his mouth, Rossamund frowned. 'Potives work best, I reckon,' he said with an emphatic nod. 'They do for many more foes than one blow of a stock or one shot of a firelock can.'
'Truly… A ledgermain, are we?' Europe replied with a twinkle in her eye. 'Mister Carp will write you out a folding note to twenty sous'-at this the man-of-business shifted his weight just a little-'for you to take to Perseverance Finest Parts on Foul Soap Lane after your excursion to the knavery. Set yourself up with whatever you deem necessary to meet the need, Any change you may keep for future expenses.'
Rossamund could hardly credit what his ears were hearing.
Twenty sous!
'May I bring Master Craumpalin with me?' he asked breathlessly. 'He knows all there is to know about the properties of scripts.'
'If it will help you to spend, then, yes, you may.'
What a turn! To be let free at a dispensary with a learned dispensurist and almost as much money as Rossamund could earn in a year of lamplighting.
At Europe's instruction, Carp went to a heavy bureau in the corner behind her and there drew up a bill of folding money. Passing the new-minted note to Rossamund, the man-of-business could not help the warning, 'Disperse this wisely, young fellow-we will want receipts.'
The young factotum goggled at Carp's fine pen work on the bill, at the import of the words the man had inscribed there. Europe folded her arms in an easy manner. 'Now go!' she proclaimed, with a light and easy twirl of her fingers. 'See! Do! Spend! And if you are able, find me a new driver for my landaulet.'
Before he left, he wrote a note to his old masters at his own writing desk in his new room, with stylus and a ream of fine, thick parchment. He sought to frame a grandly formal missive with capitals and all, just as an agent of a mighty peeress ought. Dear, dear Masters Fransitart amp; Craumpalin, Please do me the Honor of meeting with me at your Chosen Establishment, the Dogget amp; Block, on this very day at the Second Bell of the Afternoon Watch, and from there to join me in the Purchase of Many Scripts and Many Parts from Perseverance Finest Parts, Foul Soap Lane. Your Servant Most Faithfully,
… Here he steadied himself and marked his name, re-fashioning it after his memory of Sebastipole's own fine manu propa:
4
Elephantine(s) named for their great corpulence, these folk are the highest rank of magnate in central Soutland society. Much of the Half-Continent pivots on the idea that certain folk are better than others, that some are worthy and most of all should lead and succeed, whereas others are not worthy and ought to suffer at their betters' expense.This is very much the stated position of the peers, lords and princes-an inherited notion fundamental to their understanding of themselves and their place in relation to other lesser folk, the wellspring of their callousness and arrogance abetted by all levels of society and the source of their social power. Though dukes, marches, counts and barons may in their heart of hearts look down upon the elephantines, vulgarines and other magnates, the raw power that money affords induces the former to concede and treat them as equal.
Out in the wood-smoky morning, aboard a dyphr driven by Mister Carp, Rossamund ventured into the city at last, glad to have business to keep his cares at bay. His money stowed securely in his wallet and his trunk freshly doused in Exstinker, Rossamund was ready to explore.
Riding down wide avenues of fine city manors in a dyphr was quite different from riding in a lentum or takeny, a more lively bobbing motion putting wind in his ears and lifting his soul. Out in the spring-warming hush, over the creak of the springs and harness and the clash of wheels on flagstone, he discerned an all-surrounding hum of activity, a sustained buzz of energy and momentum such as he had never known before, not even in the civilian mass of Boschenberg. How big is this city? he marveled, clutching his thrice-high determinedly to his head.
'So you are to be Licurius' substitute.' The man-of-business broke his silence with an ironic smile as he coaxed his gray mare left. He was wearing his copstain-or stovepipe hat-at a jaunty angle on his head and a merry flush on his cheeks. 'Where do you hail from?'
'I was raised in Boschenberg…'
'As I can see from your cingulum,' Carp interjected, meaning Rossamund's black-and-brown checkered baldric.
'But lately I have come from Winstermill.'
'Never heard of it,' Carp declared with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Rossamund was incredulous. 'The great fortress of the lamplighters at the beginnings of the Idlewild?'
The man-of-business twisted his mouth in contemplation. 'Perhaps I may have heard it spoke of in passing, but certainly nothing memorable. Of the Idlewild I am somewhat informed-an eminent client of mine has a small interest in a going concern at Gathercoal; but of this Winstermill, nothing. Is it newly raised?'
Rossamund could scarce contain an indignant splutter. 'It was built long ago, right on the foundations of old Winstreslewe! Has never once been breached.'
'I do not doubt you, young fellow.' Carp made a noncommittal gesture. 'But it is not Brandenbrass, is it? As they say, the world is Brandenbrass and Brandenbrass is the world, the very center of the cosmos-or did you not know that? Everything comes here and everything goes out again-and clever souls position themselves somewhere in between to skim the gleanings.'
'Oh' was all the deflated young factotum could think to say. Brandenbrass shared most of Boschenberg's trading lanes and was her greatest rival.
The man-of-business peered at him, an impertinent glimmer in his eye. 'I wonder how old Boxface would find it, superseded by a child-it's almost comical.' He actually laughed, a sound of honest flabby delight in his thick throat.
Near speechless, Rossamund kept his gaze fixed down the route of high, pale gray buildings. 'I beg your pardon, sir?' he forced as politely as he might through gritted teeth.
'No, no, mistake me not, m'boy,' Carp quickly asserted. 'It is truly rather fitting.The Branden Rose was never one to tread convention's path.Why would she not as soon employ a boy-factotum over some wizened old bleak- souled sensurist like Licurius, stolen from her mother's employ?' The man was growing loquacious the farther they went from his patroness' scrutiny. 'You seem a much cheerier fellow than that laggard. I declare, he was getting grimmer by the day, last I knew him. Did you ever see those ghastly images he paints-or painted, rather? A regular graphnolagnian.'
'Aye.' Rossamund stared at the man-of-business fully in his shock; yet it fitted well that those wretched daubs he had banished from set and saumery were the work of so cruel a fellow.
'He was quite famous among certain circles, so I hear, veritably hailed for the deftness of his marks and his attention to detail.' Carp clucked in his cheek, and the young factotum liked him just a little for that. 'A dubious honor if ever there was.'
Nodding, not knowing what else to say, Rossamund inadvertently caught the eye of a filthy onion-seller toiling
