Step away, little man,' she said curtly with a flick of her hand. 'You stink of the Grume! Clearly your day was spent at the seaside…' Her draught drunk, she had no objections to his request to go out again. 'I am not your mother, little man, to tell you how best to spend your free hours. I myself shall be elsewhere this evening, visiting with the Lady Madigan, Marchess of the Pike-one of the few folk in this city worth the time-and would have invited you with me… But no matter. Go, see, enjoy.'
Now that he knew of this option, Rossamund was mightily curious to accompany Europe and see the manner of person she might call friend. Yet having first accepted Rookwood's gesture, he stayed to his original course.
'Incidentally,' the fulgar continued as Rossamund turned to go, 'your masters passed through this afternoon, rather keen to see you. Evidently you did not meet with them today, so I informed them that I have decided they will drive for me. They shall return tomorrow for a proper interview.' About to turn back to her meal, she added, 'Oh, and there is something waiting for you in your chamber.'
Hurrying to his set, Rossamund found a harness case open on the chest at the end of his bed. Inside was laid the most costly and truly splendorous set of fresh-gaulded proofing-evidently Brugelle labored on a Domesday. Foremost was a broad-frocked coat in the richest midnight soe curling with bracken-frond brocade, stitched in cloth-of-silver along its hems and cuffs and pockets. With it came a quabard half rouge, half viole-scarlet and pale magenta-and a sash checkered with the same colors. The mottle of Naimes. With the help of Pallette it took the long side of a quarter-hour to have it all properly adjusted. Next, he hung the two digitals-already charged with repellents and fulminants-from beneath his sash at either hip. When all was finally fitted, Rossamund admired the delicate shimmer of the swarthy silk, the gleam of the silver fancywork, the sheen of the black enamel, feeling like the fine-dressed prince of some sumptuous court. After a quick redistribution of valuables from old coat to magnificently new, he returned, all breathless thanks, downstairs.
Shooing aside his gratitude, Europe had him turn about thrice to show the fine cut, inquiring as he slowly spun, 'Tell me, Rossamund, what play will you see?'
'Oh, The Munkler's Court, I believe,' he answered with rapid gusto, peering from the front hall through the door into the solar. 'At the Hobby Horse.'
'Truly?' The fulgar raised a knowing brow. 'An interesting choice…,' she said slowly and gave Rossamund a pointed glance he did not understand. 'Have a care, little man' was all she said in parting.
'I shall,' he said eagerly as he turned to go, yet as he stepped out to the waiting takeny, her warning repeated inwardly like a twist in his conscience.
7
Droid second-brightest star in the Signal of Lots, the constellation presiding over choices and chances; it is the superlative (Signal Star) most sought when testing fate and taking knowing risks, its position in the heavens relative to other lights telling on your future, should you care to heed such stuff-though such scrying is said to be the province of scoundrels, mendicants, and the weak-headed.
Slotted on Paneglot Street in the playwrights' suburb of Pantomime Lane between drab three-story tenements, the Hobby Horse was a brilliant, blatant red, with a domed roof of stark cobalt blue. The apex of the crimson facade was topped with a curling escutcheon in white bearing the head and legs of a laughing horse.
Beneath it, set in hollows, were two pallid statues, the ancient patrons of the stage: the immortal blank- masked clown Ratio in comic pose on the right, and on the left the ageless tragedian Stillicho, wrapped in heavy drapes and reaching down imploringly to high-minded theatasts and common vigil-night revelers alike.
Scarcely missing some limnlass lighting the way of a grog-swaying couple along the street, the takenyman deposited the two passengers on the very edge of the panto-going night steppers. Censured by other takeny-drivers for daring to halt in their way, and in his own hurry to be off again with another fare, the takenyman demanded his fee with a snarl.
'If you get this'un, Mister Bookchild,' Rookwood said as he reached for his wallet, 'I'll go in for the entry.'
The wait at Cloche Arde made the price steep, yet Rossamund had sufficient change from the original twenty sous folding money and the refund of the crossing fee and was happy to cover his share of the night. Intent on some destination well within the blue-and-yellow foyer of the Hobby Horse, Rookwood took him by the cuff and wheedled them through the squeeze. Close with a confusion of perfumes, rumspice and the breath of a hundred souls, the panto house bubbled with every variety of accent: familiar Bosch, Brandenard with its flatter vowels, near-incomprehensible Gott, the Patricine lilt, the rolling passion of Sedian voices-these and more, all raised in animated and amiable clamor. Beggarly gleedupes moved through it all, deep trays full of folios and overripe vegetable matter hanging from their shoulders, boasting the low, low price of their articles. 'Songs for the singing and fruit for the throwing!'
Amid the crush and the magnificence Rookwood finally found his friends: a trio of young women in peculiar costume standing by a sky blue pilaster. They made an aloof group, maintaining space about themselves with long looks aimed at anyone insensible enough to come too near. At Rossamund's approach they turned this disapproval on him.
'Hale night, young damasels,' Rookwood cried to them. 'What's to do with you?'
'We are a-puzzle, Mister Fyfe, wondering what manner of creature you have brought us?' the middle of the trio demanded. She was dressed mannishly-a little like Europe-in shimmering black frock coat with high collar and long cuffs, the top of her tall boots edged with white fur. 'Is this the reason you are so late?'
'Mister Bookchild,' Rookwood said, smiling reassuringly, 'my chums.' With open palm he gestured to the leftmost, a short girl, poorly pale and wrapped neck-to-toe warm in a cloak of peacock blue with a collar of fur in a similar hue. 'First may I name Frangipanni of Worms, come to study skolding at the Saumachutra, dear confidante and rent-sharer.'
About her head and neck Frangipanni wore a blue wimple topped by a shaggy hispinster of the same cerulean pelt; across her mouth was a deep prus spoor-a thick band reaching from ear to ear and darkening her top lip, the mark of a skold… With the narrow, tilted eyes of her race she regarded Rossamund stonily, yet acknowledged him with a curtailed bow.
Rossamund lifted his hat politely.
'Here, with her excellent questions,' Rookwood continued, indicating the middle girl, her face spoored with thin black spikes coming down from either eye to her jaw and wearing a small thrice-high fixed to her black hair with tines, 'is Eustacia Brick-'
Glowering at Rossamund as if to shrivel the very contents of his soul, the girl cleared her throat very loudly and pointedly.
'I mean,' Rookwood corrected, 'Miss Avarice-raised on the Brandentown high streets just as I.'
Composing herself, the one who named herself Avarice blinked at him languidly. 'Good evening,' she murmured.
With a name like Eustacia Brick, Rossamund could hardly blame her for the change. He doffed his thrice-high to her as well.
'Lastly-yet equally'-Rookwood directed attention to the final girl, most notable in that she wore a high crown of mauve wax-paper-'is Madamielle Trudgette, sent up from the south by her parents much exercised by her frolics at home and saving coin for Sinster.'
Madamielle Trudgette loured at her presenter, her pale eyes made fierce by the curling black spoors figured completely about them. Wrapped tight in winds of fine, almost gossamer cloth of richly delicate pink, she clutched a thin staff to her side, much like a fuse in dimensions but with a five-pointed star at the top.
Saving coin for Sinster… Rossamund had a sudden flash of Europe as she was in the portrait in her file-
