and bird-leavings, while black-aproned servants hovered in the dimness, ready to broom the spillings.
'Close your mouth, little man,' Europe said dryly.
Standing between each trunk were several of the ducal lifeguards. These were the much celebrated Grognards-troubardiers whose members included modern heldins writ of in pamphlets-impressively harnessed in proof-steel lorica, checkered in black and bright metal, the long black hems of their frock coats flaring out from underneath. Upon their heads they wore black, brimless caps and upon their legs stockings of the most striking blue. They gripped cruel martels, long-handled hammers as tall as a man, with octagonal heads and thorny barbs down their tangs.
Walking in the weird internal twilight, Rossamund marked tiny movements in the shadows about the trunks. Looking closely, he saw rabbits great and small loping carelessly over their carpet-woven cousins.
'Historic decree set the first troupe of coneys in our illustrious hall long before the Tutins came,' their curator explained, noticing Rossamund's fascination. 'Caretakers have ever since been put over them and, so established, a whole tribe has flourished in here since. Such was the reputation of these beasts that ancient folk once called our mighty city Largopolis. You may well still see it named thus among its official distinctions…'
Rossamund nodded politely, yet he did not reckon the city's ancient name had to do with these little short- lived brothers and sisters of the great rabbit-lord ruling unfathomed from the heart of Brandenbrass. Feeling a cool attention upon him, he made a furtive search left and right to discover a figure pacing silently in the shadows on either side of them, well harnessed and neuroticrith-bald. His heart skipped beats. Is Europe such a threat?
Through a heavy wooden wall their path led them to a hubbub of many conversations coming through the trees ahead. In the midst of this disquieting imitation of nature, the twilight of the Arborlustra proper gave way to a high treeless space bright lit from above. Every recess of the coffered ceiling was perforated to allow light to stream in, the pallid folds of masonry reflecting it again and again until the roof seemed to glow of itself. 'The Glade of Court,' their curator announced. The wide red carpet they had walked now became a narrow path leading across the bizarre clearing of checkered black-and-white marble surrounded on every side by trees. Hung from cables at the back of the 'glade' was an enormous spandarion, half sable, half leuc, sky blue framed with a rampant rabbit stitched in silver upon it.
Rossamund stared in awe, glorying in his secret knowledge. Did these people have even an inkling for whom their rabbit sigil properly stood, or from whom their city took its ancient name?
Collected here were a whole assembly of circumstantial folk, gathered like often with like, each clearly ensconced in earnest, even strident conversation. There were local peers with their secretaries; enormous elephantines and vulgar-ines with their less rotund, more agile representatives; ducal marshals and lesquin captains in their parti-hued harness and campaign wigs, their chests and waists bedecked with all manner of garlands of merit and ribands of status; ambassadors and nuntios of other states and kingdoms; obscure lobbyists, skulking on the fringes with their books of legal precedents waiting for a moment to catch an important attention; singular teratologists of singular renown and eccentric harness who eyed Europe with especial enmity; and many other pompous souls able to govern the doom of lesser folk with a word or a stroke of pen.
Rossamund swallowed hard. Is Swill among these fellows?
With operatic gusto the curator announced Europe's entrance.
The chatter was instantly stilled.
Sweating as if it were the height of a Turkic summer, a morbidly rotund magnate nearby raised an eyebrow first at the Branden Rose and then turned a little to do the same to Rossamund, a small squeak of wheels coming from beneath the sweeping hem of the fellow's pavilionlike soutaine.
In consternation Rossamund recognized Imperial Secretary Sicus with him, the young factotum's alarm rising as he saw his foe talking closely with none other than Pater Maupin. Anaesthesia Myrrh stood to one side, watching the gathered aristocracy with scarce-veiled disdain. Seeing Europe, the dexter sneered then gave a nod to her master.
Maupin turned and, beholding Europe coolly, sauntered over to her. 'My, my, Lady Bramble. We have this very moment been speaking of you!' he said with feigned affability. 'What has drawn you to this illustrious court?'
'Certainly not because I wish it, sir,' the Branden Rose returned dismissively, to Secretary Sicus' open disapproval.
Maupin smiled stiffly. 'I have been engrossed with this worthy.' He gestured to Sicus. 'He and his man have such uncommonly interesting things to say of your more recent endeavors. It appears the loss of your trusty Licurius has made you a touch… eccentric. I was especially interested in what they offered regarding your troublesome runt.' He shot a dark look at Rossamund.
The young factotum bristled.
Europe betrayed nothing, but inspected the gathering as if that were vastly more interesting.
Between Sicus and Maupin, Rossamund suddenly discovered the intent weaselly mien of his chief accuser, the surgeon, Grotius Swill, staring in perverse fixation at Rossamund, wearing a slight yet gloating smile very much like the smirk of a child who has tattled to the dormitory master and now expects retribution full and swift.
Rossamund tried to shrink and disappear where he stood as Swill sidled about the Imperial Secretary and approached Europe.
'You may feign your innocence here, oh great lady,' the surgeon sneered softly to Europe, 'but what will you do when the mark shows?' Though he addressed the Duchess-in-waiting, he never ceased his sour scrutiny of Rossamund.
Bridling slightly, Europe eyed the impertinent fellow with brief and singularly feline contempt.
'Yes, yes, Master Swill,' Maupin interjected. 'Time and place, man, time and place.' Looking again at Europe, he went on, 'You ought to know that the Archduke has been most attentive in his concern over the distress your servant has done me. You see, a harm to me is a harm to the Archduke…'
'Away with you and your thin threats, man,' Europe finally said, her tone entirely dismissive.
'I do not threaten, Lady Bramble, I do.'
'Then please, do somewhere else, sir…'
'Oh, I sha-'
'Lo! It is the Rose of the Fulgars!' came the amiable call, almost like a rescue, from the midst of the courtly, hostile crowd. There, walking through a respectful channel made quickly amid the gathered, strode a moderately tall man in a gorgeous black and white and sky blue frock coat, head hatless, his dark, shining, long-groomed hair tied back in a blue riband whose ends hung well down his back.
The Archduke of Brandenbrass!
Keen and critical intelligence dwelt in the stately lord's dark eyes, and the evidence of a sardonic wit twitched at the corner of his mouth. His fine mustachios were curled and combed, as was his beard, a fashion he himself had made famous. Dressed very similarly to his Grognard guards, he stopped a polite distance from Europe and bent graciously low, a fine show of welcome glowing in his countenance-or was it gloating?
At his approach Maupin and Sicus and Swill bowed deeply and retreated.
'Here you are, m'dear,' the Archduke crooned, 'returned not a bare week from your coursing in the east, having slain a glorious count of dastardly nickers! Thank you for condescending to attend my spring court. I thank you too-as I always do-for your defense of the rightful place of everymen and our tenuous grip on the fringes of land allowed us by the murderous therian. What a joy it must be to put the wicked monster to flight and bring liberty to all the goodly people of this, our mighty Empire.'
The assembled throng murmured in affected approbation. Some even began an awkward applause that, for want of general support, quickly sputtered and ceased.
The Duchess-in-waiting was openly unimpressed; even from Rossamund's obscure view of the side of her face, the fulgar's distaste was obvious.
'How is my cousin Naimes?'
'Civil greeting to you, cousin Brandenate.' Europe gracefully bobbed her head, eyes fixed boldly on this lofty man, arms extending elegantly, a fluid gesture of one equal to another. 'I am well.'
'Here, you have brought your faithful factotum.' The Archduke peered directly at Rossamund. 'He has shrunk some since last I remember him. Did you leave him in a coat pocket for the fuller-lady to wash in too-hot water by accident?' He barely fluttered an eyelid at the approving laughter of his court.
