Despite the attack in the night and the buffeting winds coming up from the gulf of the Grume the next morning, they departed very early and one day later than planned.
No serious hurt had come from the carriage-borne witting. One of the maids had become hysterical, needing a soporific-brewed by Rossamund himself. Nectarius the nightlocksman took a tumble under the frission and upset some valuable and precariously perched item, smashing it. Beyond aching heads, Craumpalin and Fransitart were unharmed, the old dispenser griping about 'blighted three-bell scoundrels' ruining his 'sounded sleep.'
Fitful for the remainder of the night, Rossamund began the new day keen to be away from this troublesome city. Rising before the sun, he went forth wayfarer-ready in full harness, baldric and knife, satchel and salt-bag, stoups and digitals, completed by black thrice-high. About his throat he had knotted a white silken vent, loose enough, he hoped, to be easily pulled over mouth and nose. Bought at Pauper Chives', it was guaranteed by the salt-seller as being the best potive-resisting neckerchief he owned. He had arranged all scripts and parts-checked and rechecked-in their proper containers ready handy in order of importance and frequency of use.
'Catch an eye of ye, fitted with all yer saltoons!' Fransitart said as they collected out in the yard. 'Ye look ready to repel a whole maraude, like Harold hisself.'
Rossamund grinned gratefully.
Wrapped in a thick pallmain and a gray woolen scarf, the ex-dormitory master bore a modest satchel filled with wayfoods and useful things, and the same stocky musketoon he had leveled on Pater Maupin two days ago. 'Borrowed it from a mate o' Casimir Fauchs,' Fransitart declared, lifting the firelock confidently. Its metal coated in stickbrown, this was obviously a naval weapon. 'He has a chest full o' them from our time a-sea together, fine fellow.' A bent and stained tricorn sat jauntily on his hoary head, and a heavy naval hanger was strapped to his hip.
Pink-faced and puffing, Craumpalin wore the frock coat and longshanks he always did, a drab woolen wrap wound warm around his shoulders, and an old capuche-or cap of wool-of the same covering his crown. He bore a cudgel in hand, and his own stoup of potives hung at his side.
Against the cold Europe set out in a sumptuous scarlet fur-hide coat-a flugalcoat-and fur-trimmed boots. Once more her hair was knotted and held in a pointed comb and crow's-claw hair tine. Streaming out from about her throat into the bluster was a silken scarf of dark olive broidered with trails of wind-dancing birds. Ledger under arm and peering confidently up at the cold dome of morning, she seemed greatly improved in mood from the angry impatience of yesternight. She even offered a smile at the dim day.
Darter Brown too turned out, perching upon the head of a dog statue, ruffling himself impatiently and clearly aware that travel was afoot.
With the household staff arranging themselves in neat quasi-military order on Cloche Arde's front steps for the farewell, Latissimus brought a pair of sturdy young horses stretched now and ready for harness. Rufous and Candle, Rossamund heard a stableryhand call them, the first dull russet, the other soap-white. Both were partially shabraqued in petrailles of black lour thoroughly doused in sisterfoot, a nullodour that Rossamund had himself made in the restlessness of the previous afternoon from the pages of the compleat.
'Fine-stepping horses for town, cobs fo' the country,' the gentleman-of-the-stables had explained. 'Though you are going out into caballine lands where horses ought to be safe,' he explained, patting the beast's proofing, 'there's still wisdom in keeping them from harm's chances.'
The young factotum grinned at the beasts and fancied they grinned at him too.
'Back to simpler lives now, Mister Kitchen,' Europe said in goodbye as Rossamund handed her aboard. 'You may drop the flag; I leave you to peace and routine.'
'Farewell, my gracious lady,' the steward returned. 'Return to us hale.' He bowed, a long stoop, and the household did the same, openly displeased to see the fulgar depart.
'Drive on, Master Vinegar,' the fulgar called to Fransitart's back.
'Aye, aye, ma'am. Drivin' on!' With a flick of reins and a click of the tongue, the old vinegaroon started the horses.
The knaving was begun. Obedient to Europe's laconic directions, Fransitart proved-to Rossamund's enduring satisfaction-that handling a two-horse team was within his grasp; he humored the reins with surprising subtlety.
Out beyond the substantial suburbs they went, through mighty curtain gates, by row on row of cheap half- houses that coagulated about the stacks of tall isolated mills or long work halls, through markets already teeming with dawn-risen custom.
Looping along beside the landaulet in that hurried, dipping way such birds do, Darter Brown shot from fence- spike to red lamp-crown. Rossamund looked kindly at his little escort.
Progress became spasmodic as eager early traffic-farmers' wagons, firewood drays, stinking night-soil carts- crammed the highroads.
A smartly clad figure stepped out of the disorder and made directly for the landaulet. Before a warning was properly forming on Rossamund's lips, this impertinent fellow sprang up and, grasping the sash of the door, stood upon the side step to pinch a ride.
'Good morning, Lord Finance,' Europe said in quiet greeting.
'A hale morning to you, Lady of Naimes,' the importunate side-step coaster returned between heavy breaths, miming a bow with his free hand. 'Not as spry as I once was.'
'Have you taken up cadging as your latest sport, good baron?' the heiress of Naimes asked mildly. 'Is my mother not giving you enough to do…'
'No fear, gracious lady.' Finance took a breath. 'Could I by some trick of habilistic conjury live three times over, I should still be hard pressed to complete all the labors you and your most estimable and Magentine mother provide.'
The fulgar smiled slightly. 'I thank you for the service of your Mister Slitt last night-he is a very useful fellow.'
'He is indeed, m'lady, a genuine jewel in our already glittering staff.' The Chief Emissary dipped his head gratefully. 'And it is about his usefulness to you that I come once again. The Archduke was none too pleased after his interview with you yesterday…'
'That makes us twin,' Europe murmured astringently.
'Yesternight was but the first bout with Pater Maupin, Secretary Sicus and his surgeon pet-an unhallowed alliance if ever there was one. They grow bold with the Lord of Brandenbrass' support.Your absence may not be enough this time, duchess-daughter.'
'Yet I go nonetheless, dear baron.' Europe remained unfazed.
Finance regarded his mistress long, a passion of esteem gleaming from his eyes. 'Have a care, fine lady,' he said, 'and an eye for followers…' and with the nod of a bow leaped from the landaulet and disappeared into the press of people and carriages.
'And you, sir,' Europe murmured once he was gone.
Craumpalin revolved in his seat and with a polite cough asked, 'Are all thy commerces in this city so… botherous, m'lady?'
The fulgar peered at him thoughtfully. 'I find my time in Brandenbrass either sappingly dull or intrusively troublesome. If it were not so conveniently placed to my common work, I doubt I would ever come here at all. However, I find it best to leave boredom and trouble to themselves.'
'A storm avoided is a wrecking saved,' Fransitart concurred.
'Aye,' Craumpalin said into his beard, 'but a difficulty shirked is adversity delayed.'
'Are you always so dreary, Master Salt?' Europe retorted.
The old dispenser's shoulders lifted briefly. ' 'Tis usually Frans' part,' he said with a grin.
Smiling, Rossamund could see his onetime dormitory master hunch and mutter unintelligibly, flicking Rufous and Candle to quicken their step.
At last, after inspection by a platoon of black-and-white-mottled gate wards, the landaulet passed into the left of a twin of tunnels that ran beneath an immense bastion, the last port in the outermost curtain of Brandenbrass. The Two Sisters-or so Europe called it. Above the massive fortress with its steep roof of iron and spiny watchtowers flew enormous spandarions-one half leuc, the other sable-cracking proudly like thunder in the rising winds from flagpoles as thick as ram masts.
