such an appearance it seemed astonishing he was walking at all!
Europe caught a view of herself too, and even she betrayed shock seeing her dangerously pale, bloody, green-streaked face so starkly.
Mister Silence went hastily down the hall ahead of them, calling with all the gusto of a faraday as he went, and obstructing the shocking reflection.
Merry loud replies and heavy footfalls on rug and stone resounded from around some corner down the passage, and a middle-aged man with a shock of prematurely graying hair wearing a brocaded silk dressing gown of red and orange strode into view.
'Hulloo, hulloo, Master Sparrow!' the man cried to Cinnamon without the least shock at such an unlikely creature in his house. 'Master Pococo!' he heartily welcomed Freckle in his turn.
Rossamund looked quizzically at the little bogle jostling beside him. Pococo? How many names can one creature have!
Freckle just squinted a grin at him and shrugged. 'Many names from many namings of many peoples past…'
The man drew close, a cloud of consternation fleeting across his merry visage as he saw his more human, bedraggled and bloodied guests. 'The embattled party arrives, beset but unthwarted and bearing the crimson trophies of victory!' He peered at Europe with cautious recognition. 'You keep strange company these days, Master Sparrow!'
'Hello to thee, Master Mattern,' the nuglung chirruped as Fransitart gave an almost self-conscious bow. 'Wounded souls need needful rest and a hearth for heating.'
'Rest and hearth they shall have, sir!' the fellow responded heartily, inviting them in further with a sweep of his arms.
Cinnamon carried Craumpalin down the passage, Fransitart hobbling after. Freckle helped him in his weariness, the glamgorn's bare feet going slap-slap on the cold slate.
'Good-eve-of-night to thee, Branden Rose!' The fellow addressed the fulgar cheerfully despite their intrusion. 'You are the last manner of soul I would expect to find gracing our threshold. Needs press as the nicker drives, hmm?' He touched his nose knowingly. 'City whispers of your change of heart bear out, I see.'
'Should I know you?' Europe's eyes narrowed.
'Ah-not directly perhaps, gracious lady, but you may have chanced to read my works; Gaspard Plume, gentleman, historian and metrician, at your convenience.' He bowed.
Even in his exhaustion, Rossamund realized he had knowledge of this fellow, had read articles attributed to him in the better quality of his pamphlets.
'Indeed. Your kitchen, sir,' Europe said, a hard edge to her voice.
'Ah. Absolutely… Fabia!' he suddenly hollered, a shrill edge in his voice. 'FABIA!' he called again as he took them down the right-hand junction at the end of the obverse hall.
With the attendant rustle of skirts, a woman joined in step, her small brown face and dark and intense eyes startling among the general white of her high bonnet.
All the way Gentleman Plume called directions to staff somewhere in the house about them-and to anyone else who might be listening-for linen, blankets, tubs, hot water and towels. '… And some nice saloop and spiced toast to warm their gizzards and console their wind!'
Suddenly, through a short, pale green passage and up stone steps, they were in a long and rather antiquated kitchen. Surrounded by sturdy timber beams and immemorial stone, on a chest-stove stoked and hot for dinner, Rossamund tested the much-desired plaudamentum in a great pot ready for some other task.
Rossamund was only dimly aware of Europe leaning in fatigue on a highback chair behind him. When the treacle was done and poured into a side-handle soup bowl, his mistress barely waited for the thick black draught to cool before consuming it in one single unending swallow.
'My, my, that good, is it?' their gentleman host marveled. He took them now up some narrow backroom stairs to a broad landing of dark-paneled walls, the flapping of Freckle's wide feet sounding somewhere near.
Bearing a steaming pitcher together, the maid, the nightlocksman and several other serving souls hurried past.
In the simple comfort of the large room granted him, Rossamund found Fabia about to pour him a bath.Too tired for proper washing, he asked instead for just a basin.
His leaden eyelids becoming irresistibly heavy, he managed only a perfunctory scrub of his face, quickly turning the water brown, before he could resist fatigue no longer. Curling himself, proofing and all, on the spongy rug beside the bed, he fell fast asleep. In his slumber he had a dreamy notion of Freckle coming into the room to coo peaceful words as the glamgorn covered him with a blanket…
20
Fistduke(s) common corruption of the Heil word 'viskiekduzar'-pronounced 'viss-KYK-doud-saar' and meaning 'vicious souls'-troubardierlike soldiery who will happily turn sell-sword and often serve the darkest causes. Braving the crossing of the Gurgis Main, they are hardened fellows and a favorite among the black habilists of the Soutlands, serving as spurns and bravoes or in whatever capacity money's hand might prompt them. Though they are not regarded as true lesquins, neither are they of the mercenary foedermen rabble, but have their own ghastly and well-earned reputation.
Rossamund did not return to the waking world-he learned soon enough-until the middle of the morning two days later. Vision swimming and rebellious, his first focus was the wide, somber red canopy of a bed. The last he had known was the rough comfort of the floor. Someone must have put me here. Tipping his head back, his sight quickly resolved on Darter Brown settled on the post of the headboard above him, the faithful sparrow's eyes half closed.
'Hello…,' Rossamund composed with sluggish tongue. 'How did you get in?'
The sparrow's eyes went swiftly wide. He gave a joyful chirrrup! and circled twice under the ruby-hued canopy before alighting on covers spread over Rossamund's chest, fluttering and blinking happily.
Smiling, the young factotum dozed for a moment, unmindful of where he was or why he was there, staring absently at the slot of sky and thickly lichened tiles glimpsed through broad wooden window frames. Large clean clouds scudded across the gap of blue. Cooing dove-song soothed his soul fraught with adventure, and for a time he just wallowed in the forgetfulness, sliding his limbs under the cozying touch of the crisp bed linen and breathing in deeply on the peculiarly tangy yet musky woody aroma that permeated the room… Only when he went to rub the tip of his itchy nose did he rediscover the odd leafy bandages that bound his hand and remember all the whys and wherefores of his current comfort.
Europe's treacle!
He sat up quickly, giving his side a sharp tweak and launching Darter Brown from his chest, fluttering just below the canopy and chirping in fright. It was then that he became aware of someone sitting in the corner of his vision by his bed: Europe, arms folded and legs crossed, reclined on a tandem. She was dressed not in her telltale red or magenta, but in a peculiar long-hemmed gown of deep green, collared with thick black feathers and figured with vines of lighter hue. With deft applications of rouges and creams from her fiasco, she seemed fresh and well. Faint amusement played across her mien as she regarded him serenely.
'Yes, I did make it myself, if that is what troubles you…'-Rossamund knowing full well she meant her treacle-'Many times…,' she added archly as she pulled a bell rope that hung between her and the bed, her eyes glittering with more than she said.
Rossamund eased himself back down. 'How is Master Pin?' he asked as Fabia entered with a rattle of
