camp, Spelter Innings proved to be well more than an hour distant by the circuitous wendings of the Athy Road. The day-orb peeped above the folded greening and warmed the travelers as they traversed a small arch over a reedy creek. At its end, they were confronted by a stone wall spiked with what appeared to be newly cut thorn-withies. In this was a heavy, cast-iron gate as tall as three tall men, the portal into the town at last.
'Who comes hence!' the heavy-harnessed gaters challenged peevishly, appearing from small sallies hidden by the dense runners. For simple gate wardens they were as impressively dressed as their courtly counterparts back in the halls of the Archduke. Looking terribly harassed, they showed themselves willing, with muskets cocked and fends lowered, to vent their troubles on any awkward foreigner.
'You recognize me full well, you uppity gregorine!' Europe bit in turn, causing every single gate ward to blanch. 'Next you will be asking me for patents of my degree and proofs of my station! Know your place! Open up and let us through!'
In contrast to the sour welcome, Spelter Innings was a gorgeous town, nestled in the shallow folds between the meadows. Bustling with morning activity, every street and lane was a flourishing avenue of spring blossoming almond, lime, cherry and plum, filling the morning with perfumed glory, sweetening the fragrant wood-smoke. Local geriatrics sat on the small balustraded porticoes of their simple high-houses built right up against the main way, watching the passing of all below, with a friendly 'halloo' to their neighbors and a mistrustful stare for strangers.
Curiously, as they passed from the town by its farther gates, Rossamund spied a reddleman among the traffic, the dye-seller walking in the same direction. Is that the same fellow we found under the Catharine wheels? Yet this was not possible; how could a foot-going vendor overtake them?
Catching his shrewd inspection, the bedraggled hawker called, 'One sparkle gets a fine bit of madder for the rich gent!' and held up a pot in hands tainted bright scarlet. There was something slightly off-beam in the fellow's eyes, something frantic and overexercised.
The young factotum ducked his head and pretended not to hear.
Leaving the red-stained dye-seller far behind, they continued deeper into the wide, fertile peace of the Page, traveling under a dome of near infinite blue, clean white clouds plumping on the horizon ahead. Trees here were far and few, lonely, wind-bent pines and myrtles pruned by hungry herds into elegant parasol shapes. It was only when they were well into the day that Rossamund realized that Darter Brown had not shown himself. The young factotum began to half consciously search the skies for his miniature friend, scrutinizing every bush or spray of weeds, but not a glimpse could he find.
They went through several hams not properly marked on Craumpalin's map, homey sheltered nooks built in shallow dingles fenced with guarding pines and turpentines and the rubble of ancient stones, each settlement bearing a peculiar name like Windle Comb, Plummet Fulster or the Larch.The folks of these places reckoned themselves so unfailingly safe they went about in only day-clothes, with at best a single garment of proofing. It was a stark contrast to the vigilant rural settings Rossamund had encountered in the Idlewild. The night was spent in the major civil center of Spokane, a bustling place of high slate houses approaching the gravity of a small city. In the cheerful clarity of a fresh day, Rufous and Candle took them faithfully north out from Spokane along a busy road called Iron Street that cut high muddy-sided channels through steep wood-fenced meadows of fallow loam or rippling green. Stunted self-sown blossom trees prettied the verges of their path with their pink plum blossoms or sprouted from the lee crest of a hill. Here and there were prominences clearly artificially enlarged into broad oblong mounds of ancient stone, some topped by stocky tumbledown towers, the relics of another people's departed glory decaying beneath teeming weeds.
Rossamund spent much of his time distractedly looking out for Darter Brown, but could find no hint of him, and of the many little birds he saw, none flew up to greet him.
In twinkling twilight they found a village called the Broom Holm, a timber and mutton town built near the northwestern tip of what Craumpalin's chart named the great forest of thornwood and protected with the more usual high stone curtain. The most remarkable feature of this modest settlement was the grand copper-domed tower of a tocsin that rose well above its other humbly proportioned structures, a self-important display of the success and circumstance of this parish.
Tail-sore and bleary, the four found their rest at the White Hare, a three-story wayhouse established to service the vigil jaunts of wealthy city folk, providing all the luxuries they expected.
'I could grow right partial to such traveling comforts,' Craumpalin observed, smiling a little dreamily as he surveyed the plush room, all creams and whites and subtle greens. 'Never in me life have I known such a run of cozying beds.'
'Aye,' said Fransitart, clearly at ease. 'It ne'er stops amazin' me to think souls live all their days like this.'
'The reverse never stops amazing me,' Europe returned. The fourth day of the knave was gray and threatening, spring yearning for winter's return. Europe's mood-already mildly amiable-lifted that little more. Out the other side of the Broom Holm, the pastured meadows gave over to wide spreading vineyards, roll upon roll of land striped with dark parallel lines of grapevines. Sighted briefly between cedar hedgerows and the folding land stood the ancestral homes of the landed peers. Some were blocky, fortified greathouses standing watch over anciently righted holdings; others were grandly modern palaces of the new rich whose only concession to the rumored assault of monsters was to have their lowest windows set higher than a tall man could reach.
The Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes inhaled deeply and looked about complacently. 'How I much prefer this open-seat travel to going cooped in a stuffy cabin, to feel the wind's breath on my brow and the taste of the land on my lips.'
'Can't say I smell more than dirt,' Fransitart offered, scowling over his shoulder at the dark billows that were blowing up from the southwest and bringing with them a sweet sea tang. 'We salts bain't much use for snufflin' things-the sea encourages us ter forget that sense as soon as is naturally possible.'
Europe arched a brow and sniffed.
Fixing his sabine scarf about his throat a little more warmly, Rossamund grinned. Come weather fair or foul, he too could travel all his days like this, floating somewhere between destinations, the cares of before left behind, the cares ahead yet to come. Smiling at the flattening vales of ordered green, one eye still out for a glimpse of Darter Brown, he became steadily alive to a hidden and unfamiliar disquiet. 'The land is not as restful as the rich builders with their low windows reckon on,' he said, gaining only puzzled glances from both his old masters and new mistress.
The Branden Rose peered at her diminutive employee with shrewd calculation. 'You speak evidently of the subtleties of the threwd, little man.'
'Aye, Miss Europe.' He looked at her earnestly. 'It is only slight, but it is not kindly.'
'Hence our need to come here, yes?'
'Aye,' he returned inaudibly.
Attending to the directions given by Craumpalin from the written pilot provided to Rossamund when he accepted the singular, Fransitart turned them off Iron Street and took a tributary drive marked by a thin white stone. In excellent repair-probably through private funds-this path made for good speed, and the landaulet fairly clipped by flat pastures interspersed with vines and orchard groves in full and glorious flower.Watching their flocks in sheep-mown fields, heavily armed and harnessed shepherds peered at the rapidly passing newcomers and did not return Craumpalin's curt wave.
As the gray day dimmed toward its conclusion, they came into view of a large handmade hill, its broad, level summit ringed thickly with cedars, from behind which rose the chimneys, ridge-caps and gables of an enormous manor.
'Our destination, I am thinking,' Europe observed.
Finding a somewhat precipitous ramp rising along the northern flank of the hill, Fransitart encouraged the weary horses to climb this last obstacle. Through open gates at its summit they entered unchallenged into a broad, partially paved square with service buildings on every side and a neat garden copse of large ornamental pear trees and a spreading cedar in the middle. Veering left and scattering chickens, Fransitart brought them to a halt before the outspread steps of a stately facade of pink stone and a great many windows.
Striding down to them from the doubly high front doors, the anonymous pastoralist of the second singular, splendidly attired in a wide frock coat of expensive indigo, met them. 'Welcome! Welcome well to the Dike!' he cried, his arms gratifyingly wide. Introducing himself with a long bow as Monsiere Decius Trottinott, Companion
