The serious transmogrifer gave a gracious nod to all three. 'Ut prosim-that I might be useful.'
Rossamund returned a gracious bow of his own.
A real and living transmogrifer!
'Allow me to name my factotum, Mister Rossamund Bookchild.' The fulgar completed introductions, to which Mister Oberon let slip only the mildest surprise before returning to a fixed, opaque expression. 'Mister Bookchild,' he intoned with an oddly deep voice, gray eyes searching the young factotum's face, as if seeking to know him entirely by sight alone.
'I thought it was illegal to transmogrificate in the Empire, sir?' Rossamund asked a little carelessly, to distract this untoward inspection.
Europe gave a laugh of open delight.
'That it is, sir,' the transmogrifer conceded, 'though a discreet exam of an existing mimetic construction is not.'
'You must forbear with my factotum, Mister Oberon,' the fulgar said almost indulgently. 'He is diligently after my welfare.'
Rossamund did not know whether she sought to mock him or encourage him.
'As all good employees should be, I am sure,' the transmogrifer said flatly, with a nodding bow. Midafternoon saw the advent of a thin, superciliously smiling gentleman in dark and deeply fashionable gold-striped purple, with volumes of white ruffles gathered at neck and cuff. After many ingratiating bows he introduced himself. 'Brugel, Master Gaulder and Armouriere, presenting himself for your eminentical service, sir.'
He soon had Rossamund pinned in rough cuts of sumptuous cloth intended for his new harness. For well beyond an hour the young factotum stood arms in, arms out, legs apart, legs together, in constant worry of being pricked by pin or needle. All the while Master Brugel paced about him, squinting, tapping his lips with his forefinger and calling numbers and obscure instructions to his dogged gray-haired assistant.
'I shall make you the most splendorous man of your trade,' the armouriere enthused melodiously.
Trying to keep his neck twisted away from tickling threads, Rossamund was not sure such promised splendor was worth it.
Evening came, Brugel left in his fancy-carriage and, the examination of Europe complete, Oberon departed too. Having delivered up her nightly dosing and taken his seat at the farther end of the solar, Rossamund asked after her health.
'Most excellent,' she declared, her eyes twinkling with self-contained triumph. 'My repairers in Sinster exceeded themselves. Mister Oberon pronounced me better knit than I have ever been: I am in my fighting prime, it would seem. A happy reversal of my… distress in the Brindleshaws, would you not say, little man? Your valiant rescue was not in vain.'
Rossamund smiled, ducked his head and nodded.
Indeed, the fulgar was in such high spirits that she allowed him to remain with her in her file that evening, sitting by the fire in the crackling, ticking quiet under the defiant gaze of Europe's childhood portrait. While the Branden Rose perused the pages of massive garlands-half a person's size and delivered to her that very afternoon by Master Brugel-Rossamund sat at a low table to organize the castes and salperts purchased the day before. There was the Frazzard's powder from his days with the lighters, and the less flammable beedlebane too. Loathly lady and botch powder were prescribed to frighten a foe and knock a soul unconscious. In place of evander, Pauper Chives had provided levenseep, claiming it to be the superior restorative. By these Rossamund laid out cylindrical wooden thennelevers of glister-dust to stun and daze-and beside them he placed with utmost care what looked very much like large geese eggs dyed a glaring red with waxen crowns of emerald green at both ends. A lepsis, so Pauper Chives had named it, holding a powerful script known as greenflash, '… Bursts with a mighty flash of levin- fire like some thermistoring fulgar,' the script-grinder had explained. 'Handle it with grace,' was the added warning. 'You must throw it at least ten yards, else suffer its fury.'
Safe and snug in a padded silt-cad were three dozen castes of hard glossy black glass, each holding a dose of what the saumiere called asper,and which Craumpalin held in awe as being 'one of the nastiest repellents thy can use this side of scourging.'
The young factotum stared in wonder at these and yet more all laid before him.
'So this is where my money went,' Europe said, looking up from her perusing. 'One would think you a true skold. But who will you hunt, I wonder…'
Rossamund gave a bemused grin and then carefully found a place for each script in the digitals, assembling the more healing and helpful potives in his stoups. When all was arranged, then rearranged according to what he reckoned he would need most or least, he set himself to write letters on paper borrowed straight from the fulgar's great desk.
The first was a brief missive to Sebastipole, the lamplighters' agent, serving the Lamplighter-Marshal against wrongful accusation down in the Cousidine.
After this he scribbled three simple lines to Doctor Crispus languishing still in Winstermill, leaving off any distinguishing detail but his name for fear of the prying suspicions of the Master-of-Clerks and his mindless staff of loyal cogs.
His thoughts turned to Threnody, cornered by cunning questioning into betraying him at the inquest. She had looked in great distress when her betrayal was fully played, and he wanted to tell her that he understood, that he bore her no grudge, that he was in a far better situation now. However, Rossamund well knew that Threnody was fractious and changeable, and he could not be certain she truly cared to receive such a communication.They had fought together, shed blood together, survived together, but still he did not know if his words would be welcome.
Ahh!
After a long time simply staring at the blank letter sheaf in a spin of indecision, he gave up on the notion and instead set about penning something to Verline. Yet even here he could not think of what to say. It was impossible for him to write to the beloved parlor maid and keep the full truth of events from her, yet how could he compose the unspeakable? He tried one line on a fresh sheaf: We are all waiting for the monster-blood tattoo made of my own blood in Master Fransitart's arm to show and prove that I am in truth a monster… but with a low, frustrated growl that caused Europe to look up in mild and short-lived curiosity, he crushed the paper with its damning confession and threw it into the fire. He wanted to tell everything and so could not tell anything. Oh! How he wished most desperately that the terrible troublesome truth of those words might be consumed as easily as the paper by the flames and leave him free to live a quiet, simple life. In the end all he wrote was this: Dear, dear Miss Verline, I am no longer working for the lamplighters but have entered the employ of the Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes as her factotum. I am safe with her, well fed and well paid.
I hope your nephew is doing well. Forever your
6
Weed-bunts small flat-bowed, sharp-prowed wooden sailers used by kelpmen to cut through and gather kelp, matted algaes and other seaweeds for either disposal or use, keeping common lanes clear of screw-fouling growths. A ubiquitous sight in any harbor, their operators labor in the hope that they might find some chance treasure churned up from the deeps by storms or the titanic struggles between the great beasts that dwell in the crushing dark.
