'I'll give you triple!' Rossamund responded without hesitation and rattled coin in his pocket-part of his night's winnings-as proof of good intention.
The takenyman paused for an agonizing moment. 'A'right then, off we go,' he said, nimbly clambering to his high seat despite his girth. 'Onward we hasty go.' With a philosophical mutter and shake of his head, he added, 'Another night in Brandentown…'
'Stay clear o' the duffers!' one of his fellows shouted as the horse was flicked to start, going the very way he had just come.
'The other way! The other way!' Rossamund cried, but to no avail.
Passing the Broken Doll, the young factotum could see through the window grille unhappy patrons beginning to spill out from the chancery's scarlet door. At their lead among a gang of angry roughs was the distinct figure of the dandidawdling wit. In agonies that the takeny-driver was not proceeding nearly fast enough, Rossamund knelt on the cabin seat, staring through the narrow slot of a back window.
The carriage had gone barely a quarter mile inland, down claustrophobic lanes with little traffic, when the wildly bobbing night-lantern of a pursuing carriage hove into view.
Pulling down the side sash, Rossamund cried to the driver. 'You need to go faster, sir!'
'A chase is it, 'ey? Well, I am going as quick as I dare to about these streets!' was the angry retort. 'Another night at the Broken Doll…,' the fellow growled. 'Ye do the sitting and I'll do the whipping!' As emphasis the driver gave his already tiring nag a clip of his long switch.
The takeny lurched and Rossamund was tumbled to the footwell. Struggling to right himself, he clutched the door sill.
The takenyman made a tight right, putting the outward projections of town-house walls between them and the pursuit, and pulled his horse up short. For a dread moment Rossamund thought he was going to be ousted from the cabin and left to his fate, yet the goodly driver actually took a close left turn into a cramped lane not intended for horse-drawn conveyances. With as much hurry as the benighted confines allowed-not more than a quick walk- the coach rattled on. The driver eased past scuttlebutts, handcarts and a startled night-soil man, ducking night- drying clothes strung like naval bunting on a line at angles across the meager gap. An irate cry from on high could be heard through the clatter of their transit.
Rossamund peered through the back slot and thought he spied the bulk of the chasing carriage sprint by the lane yet not stop.
'Just as long as the other fellow don't smoke my ruse we'll get about nicely,' he heard the takenyman call in explanation. 'This improptatory path'll deposit us on South Arm and put ye a good sight nearer yer destination.'
A much smaller shadow flitted up the lane and landed on the sill. It was Darter Brown, looking decidedly ruffled and beating his wings in agitation.The sparrow gave a loud tweet!
Even in the ferment of the chase, Rossamund was grateful for this tiny ally.
Like the whir of butterfly wings in the core of his skull, he finally felt the edge of the wit's sending. It was more artful and precise than Threnody's clumsy fishing and, feeling desperately vulnerable under its all-finding cognizance, Rossamund found himself wishing the girl lighter was at his side in this new crisis.
'Heh, felt that one.' The takenyman sucked in a cautionary breath and dragged back on his horse to stop. 'Wo-ho! Wo-ho!'
Darter Brown took to wing and disappeared into the dark.
Peering again through the rear window of the cab, Rossamund could not see any trailing coach.
'Out with ye!' The takenyman had reached down with his blunt hookpole and opened the cabin door. 'Runnin' from usual folks is a reasonable kind o' trot, but not a wit, my good son. Out!'
Rossamund peered behind again, expecting pursuit at any beat. 'I'll pay you four times!' Hands shaking, he withdrew a whole golden sou from the folds of his pockets. 'More even! Up front!'
The sending pulsed for a second time, stronger now, enough indeed to cause the takeny horse to stumble slightly and spoil the glittering promise of Rossamund's plea.
The takenyman cooed to his faithful cob, then glared down at his young passenger. 'OUT!' he yelled.With a cunning flick of reins he made his horse step forward a single jaunty step, causing the cab to lurch.
Rossamund was thrown to the floor, half rolling out of the doorway.
'OUT, YE ILL-BRINGIN' SNIPE!' the takenyman cried again, an edge of panic in his voice, prodding at Rossamund with his hook.
With the dandy wit getting closer, Rossamund had little choice. He sprang clumsily from the takeny, alighting on hands and haunches amid the mucky debris of the lane.
His customer barely exited, the driver whipped wildly at his nag, omitting to collect the fare in his hurry, and quit the scene as fast as horse legs and cartwheels could take him.
Left on foot in the alley, Rossamund ran, chasing the trail of the takeny, watching its swiftly receding splasher lamp disappear about a corner. Pushing harder on legs that seemed too slow, he skidded on moist cobbles, leaping back and forth over the dribbling gutter. Finally reaching the end of the lane, he found a proper street once more, a broad road of faded half-houses and, across the way, trees kept behind a wall of railing and stone.
Another subtle sending swept over and exposed him; then, like a blow, the full weight of proper scathing frission.
Rossamund saw stars and stumbled, to sit in the gutter of the laneway. Through the haze of the scathing, he heard to his horror the distant clatter of hoof and wheel: the pursuing takeny was drawing swiftly near. Working his jaw like yawning and shaking his head to clarity, Rossamund peered about the wall to see a carriage dashing toward him from the far end of the South Arm.
Cry for help?
But who would hear? Who would care?
Hide?
But how do you hide from a wit?
Stand to fight?
Even if he achieved the same feats of strength he had used to defeat the pig-eared gudgeon or the nickers of Wormstool, what use was this or a few potives against a neuroticrith who could tell wherever he was and crush him from afar?
Thirty strides away across the street stood a tiny high-roofed cottage built into the wall that hemmed the trees. Beside it was an ironbound gate with a bright-limn glowing yellow above it.
Flee!
Springing forward, he sprinted the exposed span of flagstone footpath, head back, eyes wide and fixed on the goal of the light, running across the path of the swiftly advancing coach. Rather than stopping, the carriage kept clattering by, the driver flailing in distraction, swiping at the air as something small and feisty flapped and harried about his head.
Darter Brown!
Rossamund did not slow to ponder, but dashed to the cast-iron gate. Locked! Of course it was at this time of night-public locksmen living in the cottage next door would have seen to that.
A frightened, whinnying shriek well down the street spoke of the driver finally pulling hard on the reins.
Abandoning soft notions of asking for the gate to be opened, Rossamund seized two vertical bars of the gate and hauled, the metalwork in its hinges making a loud, startling clash as he bodily threw himself over the top. He dropped squarely on both feet and leaped forward, dashing down what little he could see of a raked path curving into the occult park.
Shouts came from behind, quickly followed by a wit's sending-invisible, airborne flexing, shuddering forth then back.
Rossamund ducked as if avoiding a strike and changed direction sharply, off the wan hint of the path and into the pitch murk of the trees, hoping to foil the wit's preternatural senses. Sure enough, the frission came, yet though it drove the young factotum to his knees, skidding in the dew-damp clover, it was vague, unfocused.
Slithering on muddied hands and boot-toes, he got back to his feet, glancing at where he had come. He could just make out the distinctive figure of the wit and three rougher men standing in the dim lamplight on the opposite side of the gate, apparently thwarted and staring in through its bars. It seemed to Rossamund that despite the impenetrable dark the richly dressed fellow was peering straight at him. With a sault of fright in his gizzards,
