was pushed back to reveal a sweet-faced woman, her ruby cheeks at odds with her warlike attire and soldierly stance.
I believe that is your ancient beldame,' their host explained, unable to hide a tinge of pride at this revelation. 'Eurodice, Speardame to Idaho, progenitrix-so the records have it-of Naimes' governing family line.'
'Indeed it is, sir,' Europe returned evenly, but offered nothing more; so started, the conversation promptly returned to its usual topics.
It may have been a trick of the eye, but Rossamund reckoned a filial resemblance between the daubed, long-dead heldin dame and the living one who sat so close to him now.
'I am sorry to hear, Madam Rose, that you were attacked,' declared the composer, Hesiod Gutter, upon the arrival of the third remove-spatched partridge in oyster jusine and blanched asparagus. 'For all its grim reputation, ours is typically a pleasant spot in this wicked world.'
'Wicked indeed, sir,' the Branden Rose returned, inclining her head.
'Aye,' Fransitart spoke up. 'Especially when fictlers are sent out into it.'
'Them fictlers is nowt but trouble…' Spedillo-who happened to be serving the ex-dormitory master at that very moment-interjected with compulsive severity, his masters not seeming to mind his exclamation one bit.
'Hear, hear!' Hesiod Gutter banged the table in passionate approbation.
'They seek to rid the world of nickers through the rising of the false-gods,' Pluto Six declaimed, 'yet even the most simply read in matter knows of the universal devastation a risen false-god will bring to all creatures: monsters, beasts and men!'
'What does it matter if some people choose to worship Lobe or Sucathes or Ninelap or any of the other however many score there are meant to be?' Gentleman Plume insisted, playing the part of contradictor. 'They and their kind are far more powerful than those subject to them; as great as a man is to an ant. One so clearly superior might be said to deserve obeisance.'
'Perhaps…,' Warder All countered, 'but Lobe and all the false-gods are creatures just as we and no more able to determine our ultimate future than the ant over whom we have such apparent mastery. Indeed, we would do well to follow the ant's example, who does not give gigantic man glory or service, but maintains busy industry in the path set by Providence.'
'Ah, spare us talk of Providence!' Gutter protested. 'Arrant befuddling dribble… Leave it to the eekers, sir!' He grinned to soften the genuine intent of his words.
'What of you, Mister Fransitart?' Gaspard called. 'You are a creature of the vinegar; how say you on the false-gods?'
Fransitart cleared his throat, as if he were about to address a room of marine society children. 'Some lads scrawl themselves with their signs thinkin' it makes 'em safe against the nadderers, but those who reckon they've seen such false ones out in th' gurgis speak like they ne'er would want to again. That's enough for me, sir.'
'Hear, hear!' was the general accord, much to the old dormitory master's satisfaction.
At the laying of the fourth remove-char-seared spit lamb and honey-roasted taters-Warder All stunned them all with the revelation that the Emperor was soon to arrive in the Soutlands upon a rare summer pageant. 'He brings his youngest heir to show to we simple southern folk. And to commemorate this infrequent coming forth, the dear fellow has gone and changed the order of the arbustral months, citing his heir's name-Iudus Haacobin Mananges, or Jude-as a more fitting name for the month in which they intend to travel.' To the general disbelief he presented a pristine bill properly authenticated with a madder note of Ol' Barny, the Imperial Owl.
'What month does that put us in now?' asked Gaspard, puzzled.
'We are in Unxis still, and Orio stays where it should,' Hesiod Gutter explained, currently holding the offending bill. 'Three days from now though, watch your hats! We will be in Narcis as if it is the end of the year, but no! One month still to come, poor once-forgotten Jude.'
Rossamund shook his head. He knew of the change made four centuries ago by Moribund Sceptic III for the sake of his truculent daughter-certain folks still spoke in consternation on it-but to actually witness such power to change even the very months was bafflingly impressive. One word from the Emperor and the whole world shifted. Surely he had better, more important tasks than making alterations to the calendar that served no useful purpose at all.
Orio, Unxis, Narcis, Jude.
This new order, however, did have a more lyrical ring.
'Pettifogging poppicockery!' their host branded it hotly.
'An astonishing waste of paper and attention,' agreed Warder All. 'The Archduke spoke none too kindly of it in my seminar with him…'
'Them ink-drinking quill-lickers got nought better to do up in Clementine than burden us with needless change,' Fransitart observed, to table-thumping approval.
'What other useless novelties do you bring from the city, sir?' asked Gentleman Plume.
'The usual wind of idle tongues,' the metrician said with a quick and peculiar look to Europe, 'which I will not bore you with here. However, among the oddities, Gyve's was only last week hosting lectures by an unknown yet patently well-connected habilist by the name of Swill or Swillings or the like. His obscurity matched only by his enthusiasm, the fellow was insisting that he has discovered a new omilia of teratoid.'
Though master of his outer self, Rossamund's innards twisted sharply. He became still, the better to listen carefully. How would this be received?
'Truly?' Plume breathed. 'Has he identified a friend or a foe, I wonder?'
'Friend, I would hope,' Warder All answered, then continued. 'This fellow insisted on calling them manikins- monsters in an everyman's form, come from the muds just as some have posited untermen do.'
'What is novel about that?' Amonias Silence spoke. 'Hasn't he heard of old Biarge?'
'Ah, yes, but this Swillings fellow seemed to think they are more than just some vinegar's cant; he held that they were living with us now.'
'Well, that would certainly put the fox among the pullets.' Gentleman Plume smirked.
'Or a pullet among foxes,' Pluto said quietly.
Rossamund peered through his brows at her gratefully.
'Swill, you say?' Hesiod tapped his chin ruminatively with a fork. 'I was reading only yesterday in a Mordant Mercer of very recent publication that connects a fellow with such a name very unfavorably to the dark trades…'
Warder All made a noncommittal gesture. 'Unsavory connections or no, the man went so far as to wave about some sanguine mark on his arm, saying that it was a cruorpunxis made with the blood of such a creature.'
Rossamund's ears began to ring and his vision vibrate.
Swill had done more than punct Fransitart. He has marked himself!
At last the young factotum shot a look to his mistress. To everyone else her face would have been nothing but attentive and serene.Yet to Rossamund it was clear in the deeps of her eyes that her mind turned upon darker thoughts, and he knew then that their return to Brandenbrass would indeed be a violent one.
21
Capstan songs lively tunes-what we would call 'shanties'-a product of the harshness of sea-board life, at times bawdy but always very sing-able, sung by vinegaroons in any group labor such as hauling up the anchor or winding the capstan of a ram or other vessel. A new tune might make its way into common society and flourish there for a brief moment in pantos and tavern rounds, eventually returning to the obscurity of naval culture.
