reptilian smile. 'The quality of your help has sadly deteriorated, madam,' he said, and with that he turned and walked through his servants, the roughs parting before him like the vinegar before the blade of a ram. The whole tribe of pugilists gathered themselves back into their coaches, the dexter Anaesthesia ever keeping her cold regard on Europe, staring at her still from the carriage window as the company went on their way.
Turning her back on it all, the heiress of Naimes fixed Rossamund with an inquisiting eye. 'It seems the events of your excursion went a little more eventfully, little man.'
Watching the glimpse of the last carriage retreat south down the Harrow Road, Rossamund would not look to her. 'They would not have fought, would they?' he asked solemnly.
'Maupin was certainly in earnest,' the fulgar answered slowly. 'How much further he might go, I cannot say.' With a meaningful look and no further questions, she peered up at the jumble of staff still at Cloche Arde's windows. 'Thank you, Mister Kitchen,' she called. 'Inform Condamine that it will be roast hart's tongue and a glass of vinothe for all tonight.'
'As you will, m'lady.' The steward becked, his eyes glittering with pleasure.
The yard empty of clattering racket, Rookwood was found, bruised and left behind, hobbling for the gate. Finding himself discovered, the young fellow halted and bobbed obsequiously.
'Are you well, sir?' Rossamund inquired, hurrying to help the fellow.
'I'm sorry, my man,' Rookwood breathed in apology. 'They were just too… persuasive.'
Summoning him over, Europe inspected her battered white-haired guest silently. 'Mooning after lahzarines is simple stuff from a safe vantage,' she said finally, 'but commerce with Cathar's children will only bring you grief.'
Clearly overwrought, Rookwood paled and quivered, bending low and uttering fumbling words of contrition. 'They… they saw me with Rossamund last night… They sought me out… No harm on my part in any fashion intended… Threatened such grievous harms upon my aunt… I had no part in… in…'
The fulgar finally interjected. 'Enough, sir!You have been tangled in more than your share. Sit in my hiatus until a carriage is brought.'
'This is more than I deserve,' Rookwood said, face contorting into an ugly imitation of a humiliated grin.
'Yes,' said Europe coolly, 'it is…,' and she left him to Rossamund's uneasy care.
As their guest settled in the waiting room, rubbing his face with a wet cloth, some warming saloop was brought.
Eager to have a task to punctuate the awkwardness, the young factotum sought upstairs for his stoups and a measure of levenseep to mix with the beverage. 'Are you hurt this time?' he asked upon his return, knowing full well what it was like to suffer a fulgar's puissance.
'More in honor than in limb, sad to say,' Rookwood replied, ducking his head. 'That's twice you've picked me off the ground in as many days, sir-I am in your debt.' Shamefaced as he might have appeared, he was sipping saloop heartily enough. 'So tell me, Mister Bookchild, did you truly throw stinging powders about the pit?'
'Aye-'
'Wo-ho!' The fancy fellow chuckled, his vigor clearly returning. 'And I thought I had pluck… I don't know what made you do it, but you caused a genuine uprising, people running and crying out.' He peered at Rossamund admiringly. 'I tell you, Pitter-patter More-Pins is terribly upset, as he kept telling me. Most of the pit's collection got free. Folks'll have to go to the Pin amp; Needle now for their pit-side thrills.'
With a bemused smile, Rossamund shrugged as if it were all a matter of course, keeping his satisfaction at such news to himself.
Perhaps mistaking this as something less happy, Rookwood lifted a placating hand. 'Never fear, my man, we have all done a fool's part in early life. I'll not begrudge you your eccentricities if you'll pardon my part in today's adventure.' The fellow beamed at him as if doing him a great favor. Relieved soon enough of Rookwood's company- the white-haired fellow leaving in good spirits with a promise that they should try such an adventure again presently-Rossamund retreated to the peace of the saumery.
Steps rang on the stairs as Europe entered without a knock.
'I see you have been quick to refurbish,' she observed lightly, eyes passing over the blanks where the cabinet pictures had once been. They came to rest on a copy of the 'Notice to the People' from Winstermill, retrieved by Pallette from his old frock-coat pocket and fixed to the wall with court-plaster.
'Aye,' Rossamund answered a little cautiously.
Europe stood for a moment while he made show of fossicking through a parts drawer. 'I thought it necessary to show you the making of the traces and lesser draughts I require,' she said suddenly. 'Yet first I must know that I can trust the one to whom I show such learning.' She paused pointedly, apparently absorbed in some mark on a parts drawer.
'I-' Rossamund hung his head. 'Aye, you can…'
'Do you think me simple, little man?' his mistress purred, turning her keen gaze on him.
A dark thrill of compunction rippled through his soul. 'I-uh-n-no…'
'Do you truly think I would believe even the least wit could lose you as easily as you have told to me?'
Rossamund had no response for this.
Europe took a seat on the sole highback in the room. 'Pater Maupin is too well served for such a valued and missing servant to remain unfound… And you and I together know that you could not have ended your pursuer.'
'No…' His voice was the merest breath of air.
Even this small admission was a profound relief.
The fulgar beheld him.
Glance by reluctant glance, Rossamund lifted his attention to look at her squarely and found in her canny hazel regard that she understood much yet held her words… Rossamund was grateful she did not press for more.
Abruptly, she produced a thin tome from her coat, hand-bound in scuffed and reddened reptilian hide. 'This is an expurgatory, a lahzar's list-'
Rossamund sucked in a breath.
'I see you know of them.' Europe's smile was thin. 'You must never be found with it-suspicion is one thing but proof another. Stow it the same with cunning you are employing to keep last night's secrets…'
Rossamund stared at the small volume in awe as it was handed to him. Within was a collection of disparate papers, marked mostly in two hands: one he did not recognize and the other he instantly identified as Licurius' graceful script. The thaumacra were in order of incidence of use rather than letter-fall: saltegrade, unbordated felibrium, levinfuse, syntony, sangfaire and several more. Among the recipes were esoteric hints to sources of the best parts, impossible properties like falseman's ichor or kraulschwimmen gall, and their nearest alternatives, quotes of ancient lore and even scrawled obscenities against the unterman.
'Saltegrade is for before every fight,' Europe explained. 'Levinfuse is for the biggest stouches, felibrium I have to take at the start of each week and am currently running low…' She went through them all.
A little lighter in his heart, Rossamund stared at the script for saltegrade as if to press it into his mind, repeating the parts over and over under his breath, 'Three parts Spice of Zichre… one part salt-in-gloom…' He looked up. 'Miss Europe, I apologize for… for trying to save the Grackle… and provoking that Maupin fellow.'
Pursing her lips, Europe considered him, her eyes clouded, her intent unclear.
'One might think,' she said at last, 'that with an Imperial Secretary, a military clerk and a massacar of minor talent as enemies, our tale had its count of antagonists without adding more.'
Rossamund looked at her shamefacedly, but she did not notice, nodding rather to the black stink rising from the testing pan behind him.
'I think you will need to brew again, little man,' the fulgar said mildly, 'unless char is to be your latest innovation on my treacle.'
11
