D Cornish - Factotum

Rossamund wanted to shriek his pain, to scream at the blighted world and its blighted senselessness. He clutched her hand to his chest.

Perched on the sill of the door, Darter Brown began to chitter loudly, a tiny avian wail.

"I am the cause of all this…," Rossamund breathed.

"This was m-my choosing, little man…," Europe retorted with a cough, "the m-moment I cried QGU."

Perhaps this was so, but what next? His staunch loyalty to his mistress was not as virtuous as it might appear. Surely it could only bring more strife. Rossamund's thoughts revolved with premonitions of an unceasing and ever-escalating series of trials ahead.

At Oberon's house-a tidy three-story dwelling in the fine middling suburb of Risen Mole-Europe was taken with careful haste to the lone bed of the transmogrifer's private ground-floor infirmary. Here, treacle brewed but moments before by Threedice-arrived ahead of them and already testing some subtler draughts-was given to her.

"She is cut," Rossamund said in report. "by a blighted spathidril sword. I have used all my strupleskin, but she still bleeds!"

"The wound must be abluered-cleansed-before siccustrumns will take," the examining transmogrifer replied, peering intently at the hurt beneath Europe's lacerated proofing. "Thus is the dread efficacy of such a blade." Taking a stylus and slip of paper, he wrote out the script for a substance he named munditi corpum, penning it without reference to any compleat or other book. "To clear the wound and make a siccustrumn stick," he elaborated as he returned to scrutinize the cut. "Even so, I shall have to stitch you, madam," he continued with clear distaste, "to be certain to stop any sanguinary flow."

Europe's expression soured. "Ugh…," she muttered, perplexingly flippant as her faculties failed. "A s-scar…"

In waxing urgency, Oberon shooed all comers but for one maid from the room that he might examine the Branden Rose with the necessary quiet and privacy.

His dread for his mistress in some small part quieted by the examining transmogrifer's steady and confident manner, Rossamund let himself be shown across the vestibule to a small but well-stocked saumery. Here he found Threedice hard at brewing, despite his wounded arm.With little room for the labor of two over the single stove, Rossamund collected the parts the script for munditi corpum required from their various, clearly marked receptacles and set to testing in the hearth, already lit against the morning's chill. Bearing the final, nacrescent gray draught to his mistress, the young factotum was refused entry even as the potive was taken from his grasp. Impatient, Rossamund returned and, despite the other factotum's obvious reluctance at sharing the task, assisted Threedice in his making of what the older factotum brewed what he named occludile of lazarin.

Two more times he delivered necessary scripts from Threedice's testing, and each time he was disallowed entry. Thwarted, Rossamund paced in the vestibule before the infirmary, refusing the little triangles of buttered bread and warmed saloop served so politely by Oberon's prim steward. He was certain that Cinnamon could fix his mistress' hurts with ease and not need Rossamund to be absent in the process.

Nearby, the Lady Madigan, her face now washed of its battle-grime, sat upon a chair brought especially by servants. Her pose was straight and alert despite a whole night spent fighting, yet her eyes were closed as if she slept and the piece of buttered bread in her delicate grasp remained uneaten. Beside her stood Finance, rocking restlessly on his heels, his expression tight, his eyes rarely leaving the infirmary door and then only to look hard-almost reproachfully-at Rossamund. For a beat the Chief Emissary appeared on the point of saying something to him, yet, perhaps to check himself, took a bite of his bread-and-butter slice instead.

Patently sensing the man's scarce-restrained agitation, Madigan stirred. "She pays a terrible price for her hardheadedness," she said, without opening her eyes.

"She always has," Finance returned tautly. "Though perhaps not as high as she does now…," he added, looking reprovingly to Rossamund once more. Your fault! was writ clear on his dial.

Finally, the port sprang open and the examining transmogrifer emerged.

"Please," he offered somberly, bowing to Madigan, then beholding Finance and Rossamund in turn. "Return."

Upon the sole infirmary bed, Europe lay, pale and drawn, her breaths coming in shallow gasps, staring at the ceiling as if consumed by her struggle. Hands and face cleansed in part of stains and Maupin-dust, and her proofing folded upon a chair beside the bed, she looked much as he remembered her lying so terribly wounded in the downy cot at the Hare-foot Dig so long ago.

"M-miss Europe…?" Rossamund said as he approached.

The dread fulgar turned her head and blessed him with an ailing smile. "Oberon s-says I m-may yet live to… to fight on…," she said, her tone bemusingly sardonic in one so hurt.

Scarce reckoning it possible, Rossamund felt his soul give an ecstatic leap.

"Ah-hah!" Finance uttered in relieved delight. "Well done, sir!"

Oberon coughed with ever-so-subtle annoyance. "Well, yes, you ought to, good madam," he said first to Europe, then regarding his other guests continued matter-of-factly. "Yet, before we run away with our gladness, as good as my ministrations have been, time is in the pinch and our continued alacrity essential. For, as I was just concluding to our lady, she-only so soon come back from Sinster-will need to return there with all haste if she is to survive such a mis-use of her memetic tissues."

Rossamund's innards dropped at the mention of this infamous city where lahzars are made, full to its ridge-caps with massacars and bloodthirstily curious investigators. Hopes so quickly restored were complicated once again.

"T-twice to Sinster in one year is not an… i-ideal record, I suppose," Europe added mildly.

"Indeed it is not, m'lady," Oberon returned with all the gravity of a schooling master.

We barely survived Brandenbrass, Rossamund mar veled inwardly. How could we prevail in a place crammed with massacars and monster-fossicking transmogrifers? One rumor of me and we will be done for! Yet, with all these caring folk bustling and hovering about Europe's sickbed, this was no place to say so.

A long case clock in the vestibule struck six times.

"The first of the day's quick boats will be setting out soon," Finance declared with revived hope in his voice. "I shall go immediately and secure you your own vessel, dear duchess-daughter."

"And, if you will, sister, Threedice and I shall join you on your quick boat as you hurry off to Sinster," proclaimed the Lady Madigan.

Proving his intent, the Baron Finance dashed off in his park drag for the commutation docks of Middle Ground. While a message was dispatched to Kitchen to send luggage-a day-bag and linen package for the immediate journey-forthwith to the docks, with a trunk to follow on the next available passage-Oberon's simple carriage was brought to the front of the house.

Before Rossamund could catch a settled thought, he was working with the house staff to carry his mistress out to the plain black fit and they were on their way once more. The Lady Madigan and Threedice in their own carriage ahead, the young factotum and the Branden Rose rode alone, the fulgar propped on many cushions, half sitting, half lying along the whole backseat. For several suburbs neither looked at the other, but both stared at the steady passing of gray, shadowy streets, Rossamund scarcely remarking the fleeting sights or the growing activity of the city's early risers or late finishers in his turmoil. From the corner of sight he became aware that Europe was staring at him, could feel her observation like burning in his conscience. Still he would not look at her, for to look at her would be to admit a conclusion he did not want to admit.