D Cornish - Factotum

That very moment, Europe looked up and she saw him, knowing him full well in his fancy mask. A distinctly protective fury convulsed for a beat in her face, making her thoughts plain-What are you doing here! — and setting a guilty gripe in Rossamund's milt.

Suddenly, beyond her, a fresh commotion thrust into the quadrangle, bursting from an oblong tunnel set between heavy beams well back in the deep shadows beneath the balcony at the far end. Proofed in deep green, these arrivals were clearly door wards from the Broken Doll, fighting desperately against unseen assailants in the passage beyond, and collected protectively about a singular figure. In the quick glare of a gunshot Rossamund saw clear that it was Pater Maupin, limping as he came, shouting directions and warnings, stout hanger in one hand, pistol in the other, marvelous wig askew.

With their appearance the frission ceased, its dread and unseen wielder perhaps overset in the confusion.

Attention swiveling quickly between the sabrine adepts before her and this new scrimmage behind, Europe must have discovered Maupin too, for she became sudden action, pressing with her last two lesquins to finally get at him.

Realizing he was beset from in front and behind, the proprietor of the Broken Doll called warning, and the rearmost of his lifeguard faced about to meet this new assault.

Yet even as Europe went for her prize, the swordists went for her.

Eyes fixed in horror on the gore-smeared white of the therimoir blade, Rossamund leaped the railing to drop down to the quadrangle floor, springing forward the very moment his feet slapped on the flagstones and sprinting at the adepts. He gave a shout to draw their attention away from his mistress, which for a moment appeared to succeed. Thinking themselves properly ambushed, the pair of swordists looked to him in surprise, expressions quickly composing in realization of their error.The therimoir swordist gave a disdainful scowl and, showing his back to Rossamund, set himself against the Branden Rose, leaving a mere boy to his vermilion-clad brother-in-arms. The vermilion swordist came at Rossamund directly, swatting at him with many mighty swings of his broad, heavy blade. Tripping back, the young factotum fired a pistol at the adept, the shot striking the man square in the bosom.Yet the bullet was foiled by stout proofing. Pointing the second firelock directly into the swordist's scowling face, he fired, his aim knocked aside in the very moment of detonation by a deft sweep of the vermilion adept's arm. Driven into the shadows beneath the balcony from which he had just sprung, Rossamund was nearly ended by several strokes, contorting himself left and right, scarcely fending each artful blow with his borrowed pistols. Desperate to get to Europe's side, he could see her, alone in a press of green door wards, twisting, skipping, striking left and right, the therimoir swordist trying to close, her arcs free again and keeping all at bay.

Beyond, a confused swelling melee began to once again fill the quadrangle: fistdukes in their bizarre pot helmets and yet more green-clad door wards striving against the fury of a company of staunch lesquins, their gloriously harnessed captain-the very fellow who had visited Cloche Arde-at their lead. A leap of hope in his innards, Rossamund barely glimpsed Lady Madigan, Marchess of the Pike, in the fray. Her face a bloody mask, the lahzar was locked elbow in elbow with Threedice, her factotum, the two pivoting on each other in splendid unison amid their enemies, Madigan's arcs flashing, Threedice's own pistols popping.

Tall among Maupin's foul defenders was a woman in a wide lustrous black dress, the pastiness of her bald head framed exquisitely against her gauzy fanlike collar of black, the flesh about the left eye dark with great diamond and arrow spoor-a dexter's marking.

Anaesthesia Myrrh!

All this Rossamund saw in a twinkling even as he defended himself, dodging and thwarting the swordist's blows, one block leaving a spent pistola hacked clean in two. Darter Brown swooped down to pester and curse in the swordist's face, checking the relentless fellow for the merest beat. That was all Rossamund needed. Throwing the intact pistol at the swordist, with a bark of fury he launched himself at the startled man. Calling all the strength he could muster, he drove his fist into the vermilion swordist's middle, amazed at the heave and turmoil of sinews beneath his knuckles. With a wheeze of wind and crack of bone the wretched foe was lifted clear off his feet, tumbling back several feet to collapse.

Rossamund did not wait for more but, attention fixed upon his mistress, took up the hefty blade of his fallen opponent as easily as if it were but a butter knife, and with it sought to win to her through the stouche. Even as he did, he saw Europe, pressed on all sides, artfully dodge yet another thrust of the swordist's white blade, only to be struck from behind by a cudgel-wielding door ward. A viper-quick contortion of her body and the Branden Rose ended the fellow with a flash of levin. In that very instant, the soft-hat swordist sprang to the fulgar's left, and, dancing somehow under her guard, swung about behind the Branden Rose to cut at her. In complete horror Rossamund witnessed the white spathidril incise through the fulgar's superior proofing and bite deeply into her side. Crying out-and Rossamund with her-Europe recoiled from the aggrieving hit, instantly swinging her stage to whip the swordist viciously about the head once, twice, thrice, until the weapon bent and broke. Snarling, the Branden Rose gripped the fellow, stunned and bleeding about the throat, stiffening the swordist dead with her sparks. Letting the lifeless man drop, she swooned herself, tottered…

Heedless of anything but Europe, Rossamund shoved some obstructing figure aside-friend or foe he did not know or care. He could see Pater Maupin realize his chance and pounce with two door wards, intent on finishing Europe where she faltered.

Her stage now two useless ungainly parts connected by unraveling copper wire, the fulgar flung it at Maupin, rapping him smartly on the cheek.

"Am I a dog, oh thorn-ed Rose, that you come at me with sticks!" Europe's adversary spat, making light of the stunning hit as he blundered in reverse.

Winning through the mayhem, Rossamund stood over the lifeless therimoir adept and spied the malignant blade lying discarded upon the flags. Ignoring the offensive taint of its touch, he seized the ancient monster-destroying weapon in his other hand and, Darter Brown chattering passionately just above him, threw himself at his mistress' foes. Cutting down one door ward with shocking ease, he drove Maupin back with great sweeps of heavy sword and poisonous white blade, flourishing them like a mad thing. Here now he could himself end the proprietor cowering before him and bring this terrible night to a close.

In the very moment of a final upswing, a crushing frission smote Rossamund, a driving agony that bore searingly into the very crux of his soul. Dropping the swords, the young factotum was forced to his knees.Yet as quickly as the tempest arrived, it cleared, replaced by a strangely effervescent sensation in his brain and belly that set his eyelids flickering. Blessed with this buzzing clarity he first saw, then felt, the Branden Rose's grip on his wrist.

She is vacillating me too! he realized.

Half prone, Europe pushed herself up where she lay by her other hand, a grimly ephemeral smile dancing like a small triumph upon her worryingly pale lips. Yet her attention was not on Rossamund. Rather it was in Maupin's direction, fixed with murderous intent upon Anaesthesia Myrrh standing protectively in all her silken swar t-clad glory before the proprietor of the Broken Doll. Her hand lifted to her sallow temple, she regarded Europe with narrow scorn, a contemptuous smirk visible through the gossamer vent the dexter wore over nose and mouth.