Nuntio(s) official messengers of the Emperor and his regents, and, when required, bearing the authority of the one who sent them. Their private counterparts-used by magnates and peers-are the sillards (sing. silas). Both are distinct from scopps and mercers in that they are especially engaged by individuals for their exclusive service, rather than being available for general hire.
The new day-the knaving day-was an insubstantial gleam when Rossamund roused, washed, dressed, breakfasted and turned out in the coach yard with all the military haste of a pageant-of-arms at Winstermill.
'An unripe start for young and old, is it not, sir?' Latissimus muttered affably as he and the stablery hands heaved the tarpaulin-covered landaulet out into the yard proper, ready for hitching horses.
Rossamund smiled and breathed into his cupped hands, staring up at the icily clear sky.To the south the element was souring, as spring was wont to do in these lower climes-a poor promise for a day of travel. The clitterty-clatterty jink and rough panting of horses sounded on the Harrow Road, bringing his attention earthward.To his astonishment two taut fellows rode into the yard, each astride a horse of the richest velvet black harnessed in shortened petrailles. In his first shock, Rossamund thought them agents of Pater Maupin and the roust sponsors returning to reassert their demand for satisfaction, yet he quickly fathomed by the cut and mottle of their harness that these two were of a more official sort.
One rider in a black long coat and mitre was clearly a duffer. His companion, a man in courtly splendor, equally sable-clad but with fine lacings of pristine white and wearing a thick periwig of black, peered up at the house with veiled apprehension as he let one of the stablery hands take his horse by its bridle.
'Well-a-day, good sirs,' Rossamund greeted them firmly, even as Mister Kitchen emerged from the house,Wenzel the footman in tow to do the same.
'Nuntio Malapropus,' the splendid periwigged fellow enunciated, looming over them on his well-harnessed steed, attention turning back and forth between Rossamund and Kitchen, unsure of whom to address. 'I am sent by his plenipotentiary graciousness, the Archduke, with a dispatch for the Lady Rose, Heiress of Naimes.'
A nuntio! The young factotum marveled. Such as these were only ever sent from important folk to other important folk upon important occasions. Instructing Kitchen to usher the ducal messenger to the hiatus, Rossamund hurried to Europe's file two or three steps at a time.
'The Branden Duke has dispatched a nuntio,' the fulgar observed coldly, issuing only half harnessed from the obscure door that led to her boudoir. 'How sweet.' Patently unhappy at the interruption, she peered down into the yard. 'I wonder what can have moved him to send to such humble folks as we,' she concluded frostily.
Taking her time to dress in partial harness, Europe finally stalked from her file, Rossamund scuttling after. Down in the vestibule, the Branden Rose thrust open its glossy black doors with a flourish.
'Gracious lady,' cried the sartorially splendid nuntio with stilted enthusiasm, turning with a hasty jerk from his candid inspection of a great painted screen of a bogle hunt stretching across one whole wall. Bowing long and low, the man swept his white-edged tricorn before him in a complex movement, ending with it wedged firmly under his left armpit. Draped across his black wide-hemmed frock coat with its white trimmings was a silken sash of sky blue that matched the vibrant stockings and fancy mules he wore instead of boots. High upon his back he bore a satchel of buff, cowhide naturally blotched black and white in the mottle of Brandenbrass. The nuntio straightened and stood tall, impressively dignified.
'I am come to stand for his grace, the Archduke of our most beloved city, and, upon his behalf and the behalf of his loyal Parliament, offer you a worthy invitation.'
'An invitation, indeed,' Europe returned, utterly unimpressed. 'Have I been good or have I been bad, to warrant such a gesture?'
The nuntio said nothing but simply produced a black hide envelope from his satchel and handed it to her.
Looking down at it with one brow arched, Europe took the communication between thumb and forefinger as if it were an unsavory item. 'You shall have my answer presently, man.'
The messenger hesitated, ashen-faced. Clearly he expected an immediate response. 'I should not wish to burden you, my lady, with any insistence, but-'
'Then don't,' Europe said with the finality of a firmly closed door, pulling a bell-rope. 'You may remain in my yard-it is a fine day to be out. One of my servants shall bring a reply when there is one to bring. Mister Kitchen!' She tilted her head, raising her voice ever so slightly. 'Please see Master Nuntio to the door, thank you.'
The nuntio remained for a moment longer, weighing his response. Finally, with another grand sweep of hat and arm, he declared, 'I shall await your answer outside.' Bidding them good day in a cold, stately voice, he left, shepherded out by Europe's steward.
Europe left the hiatus to go to her file, black buff envelope in hand, still unopened. 'Are you coming, little man?'
He hurried after.
In her file, the fulgar finally opened the communication, producing from it a fine-looking fold of high-quality paper edged in equispaced squares formed of some dark metallic substance. At the top was a sigil device in black of a rabbit in rampant pose above the letters PDetC.
'It is indeed an invitation,' Europe affirmed, clearly reading far ahead of Rossamund's own wondering, sluggish pace. 'The dear,' she growled-by which Rossamund could only assume she meant the Archduke of Brandenbrass-'wants this very day to meet with me!'
'Why?' Rossamund said in fright. 'Does it say?'
But she did not answer him, pronouncing instead, 'Go, Rossamund. Put on your new harness. Our knave is suspended again.' She almost spat this last. 'Today we meet instead with the ruler of this terrible city.'
Kitchen was called, her reply given and the nuntio departed.
To the clatter of retreating hooves, Rossamund went directly to his set to ready himself.
'A meeting with the duke hisself,' Pallette breathed in awe as she bustled in bearing a new jug of water for washing.
Deeply impressed, Rossamund washed for a second time that morning, scrubbing back of neck and behind ears; he pared his nails and Pallette waxed his hair so flat and stiff that it sat like an arming-cap upon his head. When all was done, he felt so clean it stung.
For such a meeting the Branden Rose went dressed in a long-hemmed weskit of scarlet soe with intricate black piping down its front and a high buttoned collar in black. Despite the cool spring day, her arms were thinly covered in bag-sleeves of white gossamer gathered tight over her forearm with short black vambrins. With this she wore a wide skirt of sleek deep magenta with glorious twirls and lacings of thread-of-silver along its pleats and hem, and her usual bright-black equiteer boots. Most of her hair she wore down, with her rebellious fringe pinned under a compact variation on a tricorn fixed somehow to her crown by a glossy black comb and two simple hair tines. Finished with a light dusting of cosmetic unctions, she looked almost girl-like, winsome even, someone you might want to protect.
Sitting next to her, Rossamund tried not to blush.
'Whatever troubles you?' the fulgar asked him, her gaze at once challenging and amused. 'Have you never seen a woman before?'
They set out aboard the covered town coach pulled by a pair of glossy black geldings.These were superb- looking creatures, different from the drab nag Rossamund remembered taking them across the Brindleshaws all those months ago.
Barely across the Midwetter bridge, the coach was intercepted by a gaunt, plain-harnessed gentleman running before a planquin-chair borne by four wiry men liveried in rouge and deep carmine-the mottle of Naimes. Possessing an air of solemn, predatory confidence, the gaunt fellow looked into the cabin and regarded them with all the shrewd patience of a hunter.
'Mister Slitt, is it not?' Europe spoke first, crooking a brow at the man.
'Aye, m'lady, Elecrobus Slitt, appendant to the Legation of Naimes,' the fellow answered, half bowing and touching a knuckle to his grizzled and balding pate. 'And I pray thy pardon for the interruption, duchess-daughter,
