'Patient souls!' came the rouse-clerk's cry as he swept an arm to point dramatically to the jowly, slobbering dog, 'I give you our own darling-Truncheon, the Bogle-biting Bitch-queen of the Batch!'
Applause and catcalls from the stalls.
Up went the iron divide, Splitting the pit into two once more. Thunk! went the opening of the bogle-admitting door.
In full expectation of some great slavering wretchling, Rossamund was utterly unprepared for what emerged.
His mouth went dry, his forehead fever-damp.Yet with an unpleasantly dark elation, he quickly discovered it was not in fact his little bogle friend but some other similar creature. Its wizened little face was broader, hairier, more lopsided, and its body longer. Dread writ clear on its squinty broad-nosed face, it was so much slighter than the dog baying and leaping at the divide; this was a mismatched bout to appease the crowd, reinvigorate their interest and keep them at wagering.
'Lords, ladies, all gentlefolk,' the rouse-clerk cried. 'This one calls itself Gingerrice!'
People hoomed and hissed.
'It names itself, upstart wretcher!'
'Filthy basket, how dare it!'
'Do not be fooled by its stuntedness,' the clerk bawled, raising his volume theatrically. 'It is sturdy enough to contest our darling Bogle-biter. What will be your wagers?'
In the clamor to make an easy gain, the patrons near toppled over each other to have their calls heard, pay their wagers and get their tickets.
Perversely inspired by the dashing display of the sabrine adept, Rossamund knew what he would do; consequences come as they will, he was not going to watch the end of such an innocent.
At the shrieking drop of metal, Rossamund lifted himself as if to join the upsurging cries of his fellow watchers waving paddles, shaking fists, but with a surreptitious yet powerful flick sent the botch powder hurtling at the dog. Innocuously small, the caste of botch powder struck the stocky stafirhund square on its crown and popped with a pleasing purple-and-yellow puff before the beast had even reacted to the revelation of the shrinking glamgorn.The dog gave a puzzled yelp and, taking several waddling steps rearward, looked about the pit stupidly. Then, head lolling, the Bogle-biting Bitch-queen of the Batch simply lay down as if it were taking a well-earned nap and moved no more.
Not one person about him seemed to realize it was Rossamund who had caused such a dramatic intervention in the bout. The dog-door opened but a crack to admit the head and shoulders of a patently confused pit-bob.This small opportunity was all little Gingerrice needed. With a gleeful squeal it pounced straight for the door, throwing the pit-bob aside as with surprising strength it shoved the port open farther and shot through and away before anyone could think to intervene.
The rouse-clerk stood and bellowed, 'Stop that beastie!' but it was too late.
Shouts of anger and dismay rang out from the dark spaces beyond the door, joined by the ravenous baying of many hounds.
With a growing ruckus, people began to cast about for the upstart who had dared defend a monster and bring them further losses.
'Who was it?'
'Wait till I hook the treacherous basket-me babbies won't eat for a week now!'
And the worst-angry claims of 'Sedorner!' 'Selt-kisser!' 'Outramorine!'
In the stalls to the left a riot began as disgruntled patrons of high and low class weary of the night's extraordinary vicissitudes and unafraid to use their fists and worse escalated their demands to the ticket writers. Officials in the lowest stalls called useless instructions lost in the furor.
Careful not to draw attention to himself, Rossamund eased away from the balustrade, searching faces to see if he was seen, eyes rapidly ranging the increasing madness. Above him and to the right, Rookwood and Eusebus stood together, observing the anarchy with expressions of amused wonder. Across the pit Pater Maupin was bundled away, the feather-collared dexter, Anaesthesia Myrrh, flinging out her hands left and right, clearing a path before them through the angry press. Each time she threw out a hand, there was a pallid flash-not bright like a fulgar's arcs, but some bizarre combination of witting and arcing that tossed uppity customers left and right without the dexter laying an actual hand upon them.
A frightful crashing came from the rousing-pit below. More intent on departure, Rossamund caught a peek of tentacles flailing and men flung high. There came a high hissing and with it another portentous smashing of wood and metal. The Handsome Grackle! Somehow, though the foul gash in its shoulder still gaped, the poor beast had survived after all and, on the loose, was smashing its way into the pit. Shrieking and chattering, other little bogles were rushing in behind it-released perhaps by the Grackle's raging-springing upon the tractors and the pit-bobs who charged in from the opposite portal with pistol and cudgel to stop them. Outnumbered, the foolhardy fellows were quickly thrown aside.
But escape would not be so easily won, for the sabrine adept who had sliced the Grackle before dropped again into the roust, drawing his mystic blade to finish the job. Bogles sprang wide about him and through the still open dog-door, following after Gingerrice.
The Handsome Grackle, however, was oddly sluggish to respond.
Dexters, swordist and all, the young factotum would not see it cut again.Taking out a thennelever of glister dust, Rossamund gave it a powerful flick, tossing a dose of dazzling gray powder to shower down over the swordsman passing close below, catching several poor retreating spectators in the stunning dust too. Even as Rossamund pushed through spluttering gagging folk and scrambled up the steps to flee, he caught the narrow scrutiny of the young dandidawdler with the glittering wig fixed upon him from across the pit. Instantly the fancy fellow put hand to temple. He is a wit! The patrons only just recovered from the dexter's antics thought they were to suffer a wit's puissance too. Overset-ting each other in their desire to get out of the way, they toppled as a mass, tumbling the fancy fellow in their fall.
Reprieved, Rossamund moved folk aside with heedless ease as he made a path down the sweating-walled tunnel, round and round up the spiral stair, bursting through door wards and footmen already struggling to control the untimely and panicked exit of other patrons. Somehow he managed to find his way to the main saloon, threading a way hastily between the chancers still largely ignorant of the trouble below. A sudden shout behind, 'GRABCLEAT! SNEAK THIEF! BLAGGARD!' roused every attention, and pale round-eyed faces cast about in shock. Walking at the doubled double, Rossamund dodged the grasp of a quick-headed patron and sprang for the green exit. To cries of alarm from the loopholes, he sprinted the crimson obverse, flinging more glister in the dials of the door wards bristling to stop him, driving them back gurgling and gasping. Eyes closed and breath clenched, he lunged for the red door, thrusting it wide to rush free from that abominable chancery and into the night's bitter fog.
Several yards down the road was a stationary line of takenys waiting in the weak glow of a street-lamp for the reveling set to seek their wending home, their horses ruminating noisily in nosebags. Uniformly red-and-white- striped vests showing under heavy cloaks, the muffled drivers stood in a group staring down the seaside road in Rossamund's direction, clearly engaging in some animated discussion.
'Escaping yer comeuppance, hey, lad?' one quipped as the young factotum drew near.
'Cloche Arde, the Harrow Road, Ilex Mile!' was all Rossamund gave in answer, springing into the cabin of the front-most takeny.
'Wo-ho, little lord, what's with the hasty so late in the evening?' its rotund owner chided as the harnessed horse whickered angrily at the shaking of the coach on Rossamund's hurried boarding. 'I thinks we've found our culprit, boy-os,' the plump takenyman called in aside to his fellows; then to Rossamund, 'Fleeing yer creditors, are ye, young sir?'
'No, no. I just need Cloche Arde, the Harrow Road, Ilex Mile, and quick!' Rossamund repeated in rising distress. I never should have come out tonight.What was I thinking?
'A'right, a'right, me masters! Not so speedy!' The takenyman wrangled. 'It'll cost ye double for double speed!'
