but my Lord Sainte wishes to speak with you.'
Out from the comfortable box climbed Lord Finance, Baron of Sainte, Captain-Secretary and Chief Emissary of the Naimes diplomatic mission, his smile warmer than the weak morning sun. 'I hear you are off to the Archduke's court,' he observed lightly as he clutched the door frame and sprang boldly to the long step. 'May I join your diurnal jaunt, gracious daughter of Naimes?'
Rossamund looked sidelong at the man. He already knows?
Europe regarded Finance subtly. 'I shall not hinder you, sir.'
The Baron's smile broadened-if such a thing were possible. 'Thank you, Mister Slitt,' he called behind to the gaunt man standing guard close behind. 'You may return to Highstile Hall.'
Regarding his master with uncomplaining-Rossamund thought almost sad-eyes, Mister Slitt gave a curt bow and led the dogged planquin-carriers back down the Harrow Road.
With unexpected nimbleness, the Baron leaned out, opened the carriage door and swung in to sit a little heavily beside Rossamund. He let out a contented sigh. 'I come to furnish you with intriguing intelligence regarding your ducal summons.'
'Do you now, Baron?' Europe remained cool.
A pause.
The fulgar would not be drawn.
'You must have figured for yourself, duchess-daughter,' the Baron continued, 'that after his excursion from his seldom-left den to accost you yesterday, Pater Maupin went immediately to complain to the Archduke of you and, once again, of your servant brooding here beside me.You are quite the busy fellow, are you not, Mister Bookchild?'
Feeling his cheeks redden, Rossamund maintained his inspection of the passing city. Was there anything this fellow did not know?
'He certainly tests an exceptional treacle,' Europe added drolly, giving her young factotum a satirical look.
The Baron's expression was tight now. 'I am sure, gracious heir, he does. But you must know too-as one of Brandenbrass' worst-kept secrets-that the duke himself has a stake in the pit your factotum is supposed to have spoiled and that the missing wit-one Syncratis Pater-is… or rather was a nephew of Maupin's.'
Rossamund held back a groan of regret. I should have come home sooner! He began to chide himself, then stopped. If he had done so, the Grackle would be dead now and Ginger-rice, and a good many other undeserving frair with them. As hard as the way was becoming, it was still the better path.
'The servants of Maupin ought to think better than to come after my own,' the Duchess-in-waiting proclaimed. 'Do you truly conceive my small-framed factotum could have undone this Syncratis fellow?'
'Surely not, m'lady,' the Baron conceded. 'Yet which version do you figure the Archduke will prefer? He was, dare I confess, pleased to have such witness against you. I overheard him quip that the Rose was falling at last on her own thorns.' He lingered on this last phrase pointedly.
'Tell me something novel, sir,' Europe growled. 'His resentment of my residence in his state is common stuff.'
Touching his knuckle to his lips, Finance made a small coughing sound. 'I have to own, gracious lady, that no stately lord would desire the heir of a rival living within his curtains. As much as anything, he fears war with your mother should any ill befall you whilst in his care…
'So you side with the Archduke, Lord Sainte?'
Finance's genial manner finally slipped. 'We have argued this at many turns, m'lady,' he said gravely, 'and you know my side is ever with you, limb and blood.'
A pause lingered pregnantly.
The Baron pressed knuckle to lip again. 'I might dare to offer that you consider leaving this city before we suffer more of Mister Bookchild's adventures.'
Obstinacy flashed briefly in the fulgar's veiled thoughts, but her voice remained even. 'We would be on the knave this very morning but for my cousin duke's beckoning.'
Finance's mien brightened again, and he dipped his head in approval. 'A politic endeavor, m'lady, its success working entirely in your favor and, I venture,' he said with a pointed smile, 'a better use of your servant's proclivity for mayhem…'
Rossamund could not determine whether he liked or loathed this fellow.
Smirk subsiding, the Baron went on. 'An Imperial Secretary arrived not two days gone via Vesting High-one Scrupulus Sicus-come directly from the obscure fortress, Winstreslewe, to complain boldly to this city's senior lord of none other than yourself, dear duchess-daughter, verifying all the rumor of you with compelling clarity.'
Rossamund fixed his attention on the passing streets, fully expecting some irate soul to step from the civic press, point and cry, 'Outrage! Infamy! Here is the beastly basketly boy-monster!'
'The Archduke was much moved to hear Secretary Sicus' report,' Finance continued. 'But he was most animated by the expositions brought by the Secretary's protege: a surgeon and archivist by the ridiculously quadrupled appellations of Honorius Ludius Grotius Swill.'
Innards clenching, ears ringing, Rossamund stopped breathing.
Europe preserved her silence.
'This Swill fellow tells an uncommonly absorbing tale too, as simple as it is fabulous…' The Chief Emissary lingered pointedly, seeking a reaction. When it was not forthcoming, he pressed on. 'He made claim to the nature of your young servant here… that he is not as he seems but is in truth the rarest tribe of creature, a monster in the form of a man, blaming the theroscades I hear are plaguing that region on this very allegation. He uttered his gruesome contentions with such credible passion-authenticated no less by Secretary Sicus himself-that he almost had me convinced…' Smiling, he inspected Rossamund briefly.
The young factotum swallowed against the constriction clutching at his gourmand's cork. That very moment they passed by the Moldwood Park, dark, pensive, a reminder and an accusation.
Europe blinked slowly at Finance, her jaw working as if chewing upon a morsel. 'And are you…'
'Should I be, dear lady?' The Baron of Sainte's eyes narrowed.
'Of course not, man!'
His cheerful facade remained, but the subtleties in his expression told that he believed the duchess-daughter by choice rather than conviction.
'It is Swill and the temporary Marshal Whympre with him who are exciting the local nickers with their traffic in revermen,' Europe continued. 'To this my factotum can openly attest.'
'Truly?' Finance looked fully at the young factotum, wonder hid behind the bright regard of his pearl-gray eyes.
Rossamund stiffened. 'Yes, sir. I fought one of their gudgeons in the lower cellars of Winstermill.'
'On your own?'
Rossamund flashed a look to Europe. 'Aye, sir.'
Gaze twinkling, the Baron Sainte continued to regard him sagely. 'Shall I set my amphigorers to start contrary rumor of our own, gracious lady?'
'Your offer is well intentioned, sir, but must be refused,' the heiress of Naimes returned. 'This is my private embroilment, and despite my mother's tireless desire to intervene in my affairs, I am sure you have better things to do with your agents.'
The baron gave another of his winningly warm smiles. 'When it is to do with you, marvelous lady, nothing is purely private…'
Europe considered him with a calculating look. 'Indeed.'
They traveled in silence for a time, passing the grandiose architecture of the governing district, its towering, manycolumned structures replete with statues and whorled and knotted pediments and capitals. On some other, brighter day Rossamund might have wondered at them, but now they and all the grandiose folk that walked so elegantly beneath them went by unheeded.
'If I may, benevolent duchess-daughter,' Baron Finance eventually said, in continued gravity, 'your
