summer campaigning.The sight, like a slap, reminded Rossamund of the Archduke, of Pater Maupin and the coming strife.
A bare mile beyond, they arrived at Flodden Fild, a drab, treeless yet prosperous town behind strong walls, its walks thronged with many clean, contented people-high-bonneted ladies and ruddy-cheeked country gents in ill- fitting wigs. With them strutted an uncommonly high count of pediteers in Branden mottle, their officers in fussy harness making great show of themselves, greeting the many stiff-backed quality fellows in sleek coats and high hats riding by on sleek, leggy horses.
On their passage through the town, Rossamund thought he spied a bill on a wall, the paper blazoned with a heading line that included the name Winstermill! yet lost sight of it before he could read it fully. With final farewells they were deposited at the bustle and din of the Thrust and Flurry, hostelry and local coach host on Broadstairs Lane, to charter the next carriage bound for Brandenbrass. Folk waiting with them in the plainly adorned parenthis seemed agitated, speaking together in fervently murmuring groups.
The depth of Europe's purse promptly secured them a lentum-and-six for Brandenbrass, and they did not remain long in that unsettling coach host. Out the opposite side of Flodden Fild they hurried, every stride of the horses taking them farther from peace and closer to strife.
In the rocking, increasingly dusty cabin, neither Rossamund nor his companions were disposed to conversation, and spoke seldom beyond the necessities. Her hazel eyes obscured behind pink spectacles, Europe watched the rapidly passing view. Fransitart did much the same, frequently fondling the sleeve of his left arm-his puncted arm-as they bumped along. His still-splinted leg cushioned on the seat opposite and the crutch made especially by Spedillo resting by his side, Craumpalin nodded in slumber, his snores daring to interrupt the brooding, rattling silence of the cabin.
'We were reckonin' ye'd think it better to leave the lad behind or some such.' The old dormitory master breached the impasse. 'Them cunning poltroons may 'ave other surprises in wait to get at him… Have ye thought he might be better off living in some wild place than the shoaly dangers of that there city?'
'Yes, I have.' The fulgar closed her eyes and touched fingertips to the bridge of her nose. 'Many times…'
'Better to forgo the bait than struggle in the snare.' Fransitart peered at Rossamund, a haunted expression deep in the ex-dormitory master's weary eyes.
Europe bridled even as Rossamund opened his mouth to speak. 'This is not open to the ballot of some vulgar Hamlin parliament, sir. If my service is unpleasant to you, you may quit it. Perhaps living by Maupin's leave is more to your liking?'
Fransitart scowled but kept his counsel.
'I would have thought, Master Vinegar,' the fulgar said mordantly, 'that a vinegaroon of your length and quality of service would be better used to following commands.'
'Aye,' the old vinegar growled. 'Well, per'aps this old vinegar is getting weary of living by another's leave!'
Staring glumly at the bland sunny scene of dashing hovels, high-houses and ancient manors, Rossamund felt as miserable as he ever had, the cheerful light to him dismal and ominous. He watched a vast flock of starlings surging distantly over the elevated pastures, a harmoniously writhing mass so dense it looked like some roiling fast-moving mist, skimming the hilltops-a whole city of birds dancing in the sky.
Oh, that I could swoop with them.
As the day drew on, they crested the escarpment above the Milchfold and beheld Brandenbrass the Great, a many-spired crown sprawled along the coast and bejeweled with a hundred thousand lights-the glittering den of their foes. Rossamund smiled wryly. He had once, in a straightforward and carefree time not too far gone, thought cities a place of simplicity and safety.Yet as they drew down to the plain of the Milchfold, he regarded this great seat of civilization much as he was sure all monsters did, as a dark fastness of bloodthirstiness and brutality, the brink of all woes.
On the flat of the Fold they went rapidly, and in the encroaching gloom of early evening passed into the brutal city, entering under the Moon Gate into the elevated northern suburbs about the fortress of Grimbasalt. Come away so quickly from the freedom of Orchard Harriet to these narrow beetling streets, Rossamund was daunted by the sad, crowding business, the relentless pursuit of… of… whatever this ceaseless chasing served. Every face seemed turned to them, every eye watching for their return, every mouth ready to bring report of them to Swill and Maupin and their coterie of bloodthirsting allies. Muffling his nose with his still-torn vent against the stink of sluggish drains and close lanes and all ambition's decay, he glimpsed again a bill blazoned 'Winstermill!' but now was too tired and too downhearted to care.
The lentum-and-six took them slowly into the yard of Cloche Arde, the high-house's solid grandeur bringing him some measure of comfort. There they discovered another coach arrived ahead of them. Rossamund was certain he could see an oddly familiar figure stepping from it-a tall, skinny man wearing his own snow-white hair slicked and jutting like a plume from the back of his head and small bottle-brown spectacles.
'Doctor Crispus!' he cried, leaning dangerously over the sash.
The physician's face was drawn, his expression deeply anxious and not a little bewildered. Under his smudged, yet still sartorially splendid pinstripe gray coat, his arm was wrapped against his trunk, bandaged against a break. 'Well betide you, Lampsman Bookchild! Well betide you all!' he called. 'Happy advents! This is your dwelling; my reconnaissance is proven true!' His face grew suddenly grave. 'I have just come today from Vesting High…'
'And we from the hills,' Europe answered a little more cautiously as he handed her out from the coach cabin. 'You are an unlooked-for arrival, sir… Has the clerk-master given you some long-deserved leave?'
A strange, unreadable expression clouded the physician's face. 'No, madam, no.' He bowed low. 'I bring the most pressing and astonishing news… Winstermill has fallen. The lighters of the manse are no more.'
22
Speculator private most commonly called sleuths, also speculators, sneaksmen, snugsmen or deductors; fellows offering their cunning, contacts and guile for a fee, to be employed in the discovery or repression of whatever or whomever is desired. Existing almost exclusively in cities, they operate under official license and are often engaged by the more proper authorities as thieftakers. A good sleuth will employ several undersleuths and have a wide association of informants and seeds, even possessing connections in other cities.
Still in their frowsty travel clothes, the five sat in the hiatus while Clossette and her various maids bustled about them to turn bright-limns and bring a hasty supper. So settled, Europe, Rossamund and his two masters listened to Doctor Crispus' remarkable tale of panic and collapse in attentive silence.
The assault on Winstermill had come in the night. By devious means the nickers had foiled the portcullis guarding the roads that passed under the fortress and found their way in through the very clandestine passages and furtigrades where Rossamund once vanquished the pig-eared gudgeon and Swill and the Master-of-Clerks conducted their wretched business.
'Such cruel speed, such mortal efficiency!' Crispus pressed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. 'They seemed to pounce from every subterranean orifice, every door and closet.'
Though the defenders roused quickly, they could do little to halt the inward attack.
'I could hear the frightful clamor of conflict through the walls of the infirmary,' The Doctor recalled sadly. 'The bells of the Specular ringing ceaselessly, cannon on the wall tops booming, muskets loosed by quarto in the very halls of the manse joined by the ranting cacophony of a bestial host. I am ashamed to admit that my first thoughts were to flight. This would not do, of course; what of the hurt in my own care? Who would seek out poor Mister Numps?'
