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Fictler(s) worshippers and followers of false-gods, the name coming from the notion that these folk honor fictions, that is, false notions of the false-gods.They are typically regarded as a type of sedorner, yet they hold themselves as entirely distinct from sedorners and outramorines-opposites in fact, seeking the false-gods to rise up to rid the world of the landed monsters, the true foes of everymen. They prefer to call themselves gnosists, that is, 'the knowers,' for the higher knowledge they believe they possess, yet are not above the use of human sacrifice in their fervor to summon forth their chosen false-god.
The celebration at Europe's success and defeat of t the worm-formed sapperling was great. At first those left to wait at Scantling Aire had dreaded the worst. This fear was distressingly amplified when Bodkin Ease emerged from the deep of night, bruised and delirious with grief, yammering death and violence and a great black ettin built of worms and muck descending to destroy them whole. In this light Europe and Rossamund's dawn return was hailed with an effusion of joy, and none was more delighted than Fransitart, who had not slept a nod, lying fully dressed upon his borrowed cot and 'fretting like a fussy old panderer'-as Craumpalin reported it.
'Well done, lad' was all the dormitory master would say as he gripped Rossamund firmly by both shoulders.
Told the very hour of their return, Europe's account of the victory-spoken as she drank an entire pail of water straight from the well-had been brief, the merest details and a single dead worm the testament to her success. Taking it as his own, the Monsiere elaborated her tale most handsomely to all who would listen. Through his audience it spread, greatly enlarged and with astonishing speed, to other knowing souls who, in their turn, transmitted the story of the slaying with all the confidence and gory clarity of actual eyewitness.
Soon the whole region buzzed with it; on their return to the manorburg the landaulet was laden with gifts of sheep-cheese and woolen skin warmers as they were farewelled by cheers from the cottagers. Their whole journey back was attended by huzzahs! from joyful vine dressers and herders standing upon the rough verges.
Craumpalin declared himself mystified and Rossamund with him; Europe raised her brows briefly but said nothing.
Safe again in the Patredike, Rossamund was allowed to sleep for the remainder of the day, waking in time for supper to learn, firstly, that Craumpalin had tried at Europe's treacle with only modest success; and secondly, that Monsiere Trottinott, his fellow landed lords and the parish burghers had met that afternoon to decree the very next day a vigil for all staff and workers, calling it Sappis Deflectere.
'The worm has been turned!' the Monsiere cried in happy explanation. 'It shall be marked on our calendars hereafter and your names writ in the parish transactions and on the Register of Distinction! I was just telling your mistress that tomorrow night we shall hold a fete in your joint honor, young sir!' He raised his fine glass to Rossamund.
To his great satisfaction, Europe tipped him a nod of her own goblet, her eyes knowingly bright.
Glad as he was that they had survived, Rossamund spared some grief for the poor worthy peltrymen he barely knew, courageous fellows who had paid so dear a price for their honest exertions.
'Hucilluctors and woodsmen know the harshness of their trade, little man, and peltrymen's lives are consequentially short,' Europe said when he spoke quietly to her of them later that evening, sitting easy in the Dike's billiard room. 'Such a shame their youngest member had to run off so. He could, at least, have received the triple fee due him as recompense, scant as it might be.
Trottinott barely mentioned the missing Furrow brothers, and the local masters uttered not a word of suspicion or even bland inquiry on them. No one, it seemed, wanted to spoil their delight by mourning for a pair of greasy, anonymous pelt-trappers. These same masters, when they met again that morning in the Monsiere's large green-walled observatory, were more animated with concern for the evidence of fantaisists in their parish.
'They can keep to their puzzled ideas up in the rises,' one bluff-browed worthy decried, pausing in his scrutiny of a wide scenograph of the Trottinotts' entire property that hung among a collection of many delicate water-tints of the local varieties of flora beside the Monsiere's great desk.
'Hear, hear, Mayor!' another old fellow in an uncomplimentary black wig enthused. 'We have little need for them down here and even less for what they bring with them.'
'Our constables will ferret them out,' the Monsiere added, 'and drive them back to the fells in the east.'
The corners of Europe's mouth twitched, the barest tic articulating perfectly what she thought of the stern claim to the efficacy of the local constables.
Rossamund harbored a small lament, scarcely admitted to himself, for the passing of the sapperling beast: foul, violent yet bafflingly constructed, somehow wondrous and dire at once. With its end the world to him felt smaller, reduced-such as at the ending of the Herdebog Trought or the Misbegotten Schrewd. He was happy to sink these bitter sentiments in the joyful promise of the fete.
By servant and ambler, word of the event was sent to all around, yet with his usual harness so badly soiled by the fight and being cleansed by the fuller, Rossamund had only his old coat as replacement.This was such unfitting garb for an assembly that he feared he might not be able to go. How utterly grateful he was when, upon observing this, Madamine Trottinott insisted he be furnished for the fete with his choice of beautiful coats and suits summoned from Autos' own wardrobe. In his borrowed room, suit after suit was tried for fit and look, the Madamine fussing over him as if Rossamund were one of the family.What Autos made of this as he stood watching with large intense eyes from the door, the young factotum could not discern.
'Such a foolishly brave young man,' she cooed. 'It is utterly scandalous to send one so young to contend with such dangers. How you have come back so little changed in countenance I can barely comprehend!' She scrutinized him keenly. 'I would never let Autos out on such a risky foray,' she added, to the audible agreement of the panderer waiting nearby. 'Not until he is at least fifteen, and maybe not even then!'
With a scowl, her elder son ducked his head and quickly left. Held in the high vaulted glass and stone of the Trottinotts' pageant-room, the fete that night was as much a spectacle as Rossamund hoped. Conveyances, drivers and footmen near filled the great yard as everyone in the parish of even slightly worthy station gathered, invited or otherwise, to rejoice in the salvation of their pastures. It was more folk than Rossamund thought possible in such a broad and seemingly empty land. And here he was, in a silvery satin frock coat over a suit of weskit and longshanks cut from the same cloth, and-for the first time in his existence-stockings with buckled slippers, an honored guest among them all.
Seated beside him on a curling gilt highback at one end of the hall, the Branden Rose was marvelously conspicuous among all the wide skirts and bustles and stays. Dressed in finery brought against such an eventuality, she wore a sleeveless frock coat of royal carmine velvet, its broad frock splitting apart at the waist to show the tunic of supple milk-colored linen she wore underneath. The exposed sleeves of the tunic bagged just above her elbows and spilled out wide and loose, falling back to reveal her bare arms and the sets of tiny X's puncted in rows upon them. Her chestnut hair was gathered in a basket plait out of which radiated several hair tines like the sticks of a fan.
Dressed in full courtly attire including his grandsire's colorfully embroidered caudial honor hanging from his waist, Monsiere Trottinott stood upon the other side and introduced the Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes to a long line of leading families. There was the Marchess-dowager of the Midden: 'Ah, my dear, please send my felicitations to your mother!'; the Reive and Reivine of the Trim: 'Our most humble admirations…'; the Reive and Reivine of Pedester: 'Well-a-day to you, gracious lady, are you acquainted with the Duke-Originaire of Haquetaine?'; the Armige of Uffing Lee and the Lady Grey: 'Delighted'; the Mayor of Angas Welcome and his large family: 'Welcome biddings again, oh Gracious Saving Lady!'… And on it went for much of the night.
Every invitation to dance, whether from senior lord or young master, Europe declined with, 'I am a little battered from my victory.'
