descended the broad sweep of staircase that went down from the landing to a wide hall of old dark wood and white marble below. Following ears and nose, he easily navigated the narrow passages, passing closed doors and silent rooms to find his destination: an enormous dining hall of stone and tall, narrow windows to rival the banqueting palace of some fabled heathen king. Its walls were lined with many grand paintings, the grandest of all a vast fantastico of an ancient political scene strung above the mighty stone fire-place at the right end of the long space. On the hearth rug lay Baltissar, staring with hungry restraint at a whole gaggle of unknown souls who sat about a long oval dining table in the very midst of the hall. Their hubble-bubble filled the space as they chatted with happy animation among the candlesticks, glass and silverware.
Every attention turned expectantly to Rossamund's arrival. The young factotum fumbled for a moment as he tried to take the entire scene in at once, until he spotted Fransitart, red-nosed, turning in his chair to see him come in, and beyond the old salt, Europe peering at him impassively. Sitting regally at the seat of honor, she was dressed in her more usual coat of brilliant scarlet hide rescued that very day from the wreck of the landaulet.
'Welcome to our Great Refectory, sir!' Gentleman Gaspard Plume greeted him from the other end of the board. 'The timing of your stomach is impeccable! Late lunch-or epicibals, as we delight to call it,' he added with a perceptive wink to his other guests, 'is upon the very brink of being laid. Join us, fine fellow, join us!'
Rossamund bowed confusedly, and a seat was found for him between Europe on the left and Amonias Silence on the right, the amanuensis looking fine in a soutaine of glossy gray and high starched collar and neckerchief of pristine white.
Taking her plaudamentum from him, the fulgar arched a reassuring brow.
As the first remove was served-pottage fancy, fresh rye cobs and pitchers of new spring water-Rossamund was graciously introduced to the other sitters spaced widely about the enormous oval table. First among them, to Gentleman Plume's right, was a broad fellow with a famous name: Warder All, metrician and wilder, a man seeking 'to preserve nature in all its pristine splendor against the unceasing, uglifying cicurations of everyman'-or so their host proclaimed. Clad in a sturdy proofed frock coat of a surprisingly delicate pink and a white-powdered bag-wig, he had arrived from Brandenbrass that very afternoon. 'He spends far too much of his time petitioning the Archduke to treat the wild spaces kindly, but today has finally seen reason and come to hide here before he takes up a survey expedition to Thisterland. What is more, my fine fellow!' — Gentleman Plume turned to properly address the subject of his introduction with undiluted pleasure. 'You have brought us krebin from the darksome east and oyster too-not pickled in Patriarch's Pond, mind, but fresh plucked from their native beds at the bottom of the Branden Roads, dulcified and put in ice from the floes of Heilgolund!'
Regarding Rossamund with serene countenance,Warder All dipped his head in cool greeting.
Next to the wilder metrician was a cultivated woman in a high-collared jacket of deep viridian who wore her ginger hair up in a simple braided club as a man might. Pluto Six was her name-a name as recognizable to Rossamund as Warder All. One of the permanent lodgers at Orchard Harriet, she was a frequent illustrator of the very pamphlets and gazettes Rossamund preferred.
She welcomed him with a soft, precisely pronounced, 'Well-a-day.'
Rossamund was ashamed to admit he had previously thought her a man, and inclined his head part in courtesy, part to hide the flush in his cheeks.
Next-and looking vaguely uncomfortable among so many people of higher station-came Fransitart. 'Whom I am certain you know right well already,' said Plume with a wink. Abruptly the ex-dormitory master sneezed into a cloth. 'Beggin' ye pardon, me masters…,' he muttered, dabbing his nose.
Beside him and directly across from Rossamund sat a man with a delicate face and resplendent in a broad- lapeled coat of dark silver blue, his rich black hair curled and long like a wig.
'Hesiod Gutter!' he said in introduction. 'Playwright-though not of those awful populist pantos, mind.' He reached across the table to vigorously shake Rossamund's hand. 'Manly grip!' he declared approvingly. 'Excellent. Well met, sir.'
'Our H. Gutter also dabbles in opera,' Gaspard continued, smirking ever so slightly, 'though don't let that dissuade you from further association with him.'
Unfathoming at what must have been some private jape, Rossamund smiled anyway, not in the least dissuaded.
'And here is your mistress, favoring us so with her company.' Their host beamed to Europe, who smiled mildly in return.
Beyond Mister Silence, on Rossamund's right, sat a solemn fellow. Though he was clothed in simpler workman's buffs and bore a gloomy aspect, his eyes were very much the mirror of Gentleman Plume's own.
'This is my elder brother, Philemon, Lord Plume, twenty-fifth Count of Windspect Folia, Master of Temburly Hall,' Gaspard said finally.
Swaying a little, the Count of Windspect Folia blinked at Rossamund languidly.There was something unhinged yet percipient in his look, and the young factotum thought for just a moment he was beholding Numps.
'Always a delight to have one of your tribe to dine,' the Count said bluntly, blurring his words. 'However, you will have to excuse Cannelle and little Pococo; they have had to go…' He leaned in a little, and with stage whisper added, 'Urgent business.' The Count then returned his attention to the crystal tumbler of thick dark red liquid he revolved slowly in his hand.
Their host, his younger brother, peered at him sadly for an inkling. Pointing open-handed to Rossamund, he went on, undeterred. 'And this is Rossamund Bookchild, factotum to our other honored guest, the Branden Rose, and friend to our ancient friends… Rossamund is correct, is it not?' Gaspard inquired, putting a little too much emphasis on the final vowel.
Rossamund nodded. 'Aye, sir.'
'Not a name you want to get wrong, ey…'
'Ah, no, sir.'
Introductions done, Plume asked Warder All to approve the meal.
'Let us give ponder to the unmerited bounty of nature…,' the metrician began with an impressively deep voice. He lowered his gaze and the other guests went silent.
Decidedly uncomfortable, Europe peered at Mister All with narrow scrutiny.
The memorial was brief, the eating long and conversation longer, ranging from the merits of one composer against another, one pen against another, one fabulist against another-each interlocutor clearly possessing his or her favorite.
For all their animation and easy familiarity, the dining talkers seemed wary of Europe-Warder All most of all. He appeared perplexed, and kept staring at her, his perceptive gray eyes clouded with bemused calculations.
In her turn, the Duchess-in-waiting spoke freely enough with those closest to her. As they waited for the second remove to be laid-spinach egg pie and grass-wine, maybe one of Monsiere Trottinott's own vintages-their host suddenly called her attention to the gigantic painting hung above the fire behind her.
'A recent purchase of mine,' Gaspard said happily.
The whole party turned to look.
Framed in ponderous gilt, it showed an indomitable woman clad in peacock green and a splaying aura of feathers, proudly extending her hand to a wild yet magnificent-looking fellow knelt before her. Armored in buff and hide and fur, he bore an equally princely manner despite his genuflection. Standing amid the flotsam of just-won battle, the two were surrounded by a crowd of souls in ancient clothes, each showing a different face to the moment: grief, reverence, wonder. A well-dressed group of sages among the queen's own retinue had heads together in sly deliberation. A brazen plaque beneath read 'Idaho the Great Receives Tribute from the King of Lethe.'
'The Neo-Athic school, I believe,' Hesiod Gutter observed.
'Completely correct, sir!' Gaspard concurred then continued, perhaps a little too chattily, to his illustrious guest. 'Do you mark that rather martial-looking woman, madam, standing so alertly just behind the immortal empress?'
Slowly twisting in her seat to gaze more fully upon the image, Europe nodded.
Rossamund nodded as he examined the impressive figure standing between the historied empress and her now infamous band of scheming advisers.Wielding a long-bladed spear, the woman was clad in a thick hackle of leonguile hide over a white laminated lorica and beneath this a wide skirt of red. On her head was a high bronze helm crested with black-and-white-striped horsehair, and red-and-white checks covering the crown. This casque
