Factotum

Feeling tiny and utterly ignorant, Rossamund stood behind his mistress, hands at sides, silent, as he had been schooled to do.

Europe herself showed the hint of a smile, the kind that spoke of death and danger. 'I must confess you at an advantage, cousin Brandenate,' she said with a nod. 'I cannot speak on a fuller's labors and must defer to your obvious expertise in the lowly matter of laundry.'

This elicited a spontaneous murmur of approbation from the court-far less in volume but greater in genuine mirth-that, with many coughs and shuffling feet, was quickly transmuted to a tart and uncharitable hubble- bubble.

The Archduke's self-approving grin tightened into a fixed grimace. 'Dear sister Rose,' he returned, his voice sickly kind, 'how I miss your attendance at my court.' He bowed to hide this patent lie. 'I understand how diverting it must be to cast your long shadow upon the churls and bumpkins clamoring for your aid. As for myself,' he went on before the Duchess-in-waiting could react, 'I am preparing for this season's campaigning. The Emperor, as usual, wants me to join his grand Imperial armies against the sedorner kings of the west.' He made a slight motion to the marshals and captains stood together, watching Europe with what Rossamund could only think to call hungry eyes. 'Care to accompany us?'

The Duchess-in-waiting simply tilted her head in refusal.

To this the Archduke smiled, a wolfish grin in expectation of such a response. 'Here, let us walk together.' He motioned toward a wider shadow between the trees. With that action half a dozen servants waiting on left and right braced up, their eyes fixed on their master, ready to obey.

'You will forgive me, my goodly honored guests. I shall return presently,' he proclaimed to the gathered. 'The Duchess-daughter of Naimes and I must talk of stately things.' Gesturing to the fulgar to follow, the Archduke strode to one of many gaps in the trunks on the right, drawing a tail of staff after him.

None of the throng looked pleased, and several glared Europe down and up, envious of her clearly undeserved favor.

Disregarding all, she went along with her cousin peer, indicating by subtle signal for Rossamund to come too.

Taking one last glance about the crowd of fawning political souls, Rossamund saw Swill peering gloatingly at him, the butcher's regard never leaving him for a moment. Following the example of his mistress, Rossamund returned the stare with as impassive an expression as he could muster and gratefully exited the Glade of Court.

The stately master of Brandenbrass took Europe for a stroll back into the gloom of the indoor forest, down an artificial avenue. Walking with the ducal attendants-several servants in tow of an intense clerical-looking fellow all flanked by a quarto of Grognards-the young factotum kept a handful of paces behind, head ducked respectfully, watching the two mighty folk through his brows. Materializing from the gloom, two conspicuously bald-headed lifeguards followed again beside them in the adjacent avenue.

Hands behind back, the lord of Brandenbrass set a leisurely pace.

'I hear your new factotum was expensive to obtain,' he began.

Rossamund concentrated on keeping step.

'His salary is no greater than any other aide's,' the Branden Rose answered evenly.

'For truth?' The Archduke smiled a serpent's smile. 'You do not think quo gratia a high price?'

The fulgar sniffed an odd, dismissive kind of laugh.

Unfazed in his turn, the mighty man's smile remained. 'The use of our ancient right for such a purpose-as you can well imagine, my dear,' he returned in fatherly tones, despite his near-equivalent age, 'would do great dishonor to us all'-by which Rossamund could only assume he meant the rulers and heirs of state-'and greatest of all to the one so misusing it… Though…' He gestured easy with his hand. 'I need not tell you that, of course.'

Half a smirk fluttering on her rouged lips, Europe simply looked at him. 'You are direct indeed, cousin duke'- her words were heavy with irony-'and sound much like my mother.'

Rossamund's nape prickled with fright.

Here they were before one of the few souls in the Empire second only to the Emperor in power-who commanded armies and navies and could call for your death without any recourse-yet Europe bantered and cogged with him as if he were a senior member of her staff or some haggling high-street shopkeeper.

Yet the Archduke did not take umbrage but kept a steady, careful tone. 'Even a beautiful untameable heir of state must explain herself once-of-a-while…'

'Such an untameable heiress might have much better uses for her time, sir.'

'It might appear needless, I grant, but I hear such disconcerting reports about the novelty of your new factotum's origin.' He glanced over his shoulder to give Rossamund a sidelong inspection.

'What, pray, is novel about a marine society child from Boschenberg?' Europe countered in easy tones.

'Why nothing, little cousin Naimes. But a child that is actually a monster in a child's form? Now that is an innovation!'

A great lurching like guilt twisted in Rossamund's gut, making his brow clammy. He judiciously scrutinized the sentinel wits from the corner of his sight; the severe fellows seemed solely intent on Europe.

The Archduke of Brandenbrass cocked his head congenially at her. 'You were ever the vanguard of fashion, my dear.'

'I wonder at you, cousin,' the fulgar declared with quiet poise, 'for putting so uncommon a trust in such dangerous and idling twitter. Such stuff I would expect to be believed by those in possession only of ears with little else than mouths between.'

Now it was the Archduke's turn to chortle. 'An Imperial Secretary is no simple ruffian come to complain about pigs in his 'taters; nor, my dear, is his power some overreliance on the pleading claims of ancient blood.'

Rossamund knew enough to recognize this as a slight against his mistress, and an angry heat surged around his neck and scalp.

'It might serve you, cousin'-Europe's tone was didactic, as if scolding a simpleton-'to make a more thorough inquiry of the virtue of those bringing such accusations, and their associates. Investigation of the deeper cellars of their bastion might turn over good reason to discredit these ambitious colleagues of yours.'

'You speak of course of the sanguine cause of the obscure and previous marshal of Winstermill,' the lord of Brandenbrass purred ever so smoothly. 'Sad, so sad…'

Rossamund bridled silently at this slur upon the noble Lamplighter-Marshal.

'From what I know, he too has made such a claim,' the Archduke was saying. 'Yet extensive searches made by the current marshal have yielded nothing…'

'Possibly a proof in itself, I would have thought…' Europe smiled in queenly repose. 'It strikes me, cousin, that if you have such damning testimony, such witnesses, such potent friends, you do not summon your lifeguards and your clerks to prosecute me and my novel staff here and now and bring satisfaction to all your complaints.'

Half in expectation that this might indeed occur, Rossamund reflexively reached for absent digitals.

Yet no one moved. No order came.

'Ha ha, my match is met!' the Archduke suddenly exclaimed with perfectly pitched mirth, his laughter strangely flat in this weird faux-forest. Yet his gaze was glittering as he stopped and turned to his guest, a conflict of choices wrestling in his twitching gaze. 'Regardless of how you dodge and hide, sister, it must be said that if these proofs bear out, it would be a perverse turn, even for you, m'dear.' He smirked. 'I recall only last year at one of your rare appearances at an evening conversational with the Marchess of Pike, where I heard you say to Lady Madigan and the Reive of Lo that… What was it again?' He hesitated, relishing the moment as he leaned toward one of his secretaries as if they might remind him. 'Oh, yes… that monsters were only good for sport or slaughter…' He watched her as if to observe the fall of a well-aimed shot.

Unmoved, the fulgar's diamond-spoored brow rose slightly. 'And here was I, thinking you were too interested in the Baroness of Pike's much celebrated bosom to hearken properly to decent conversation.'

The Archduke colored just slightly. 'There now!' He smacked his lips. 'How clumsy of me to speak of such triflings with you, the great teratologist who has performed such services for my humble state and for which I am forever grateful.'

'And your return to flattery, cousin, heralds the end of our conversation,' she returned mildly. 'I go to knave. Good day.' Without curtsies or niceties, the heiress of Naimes turned on boot-heel and strode boldly down the