D Cornish - Factotum

What was Europe thinking to send me here? Swallowing hard, Rossamund was heartily glad he had fresh splashings of Exstinker wrapped about his middle.

"Longest line shrinks quickest," Carp proclaimed, and went straight to the end of a lengthier queue. "Though not that line," he continued quietly, indicating the largest collection of people farther on, most carrying some fashion of stained or heavy-looking bag. "They are waiting to claim their prizes."

Well reckoning what grisly trophies these contained, Rossamund did not dwell on them long.

Carp peered askance at the motley teratologists lined before him. "Goose-a-score incompetents," came his snide mutter. "A knave cannot be much chop if he has to represent himself to an underwriter." He breathed a know-it-all sigh. "It is easy enough to buckle on proofing, sling an arm at your side and pretend to yourself and others that you are thew, but only a scant few are what you would call true teratologists."

Bothered as he was by the man-of-business' superior tones, Rossamund had to agree it would have been entirely unseemly for Europe to stand there like some common agent, meekly waiting her turn. Even he, in his weathered blue frock coat, looked finer than many of the dowdy bravoes ahead of him. With so many teratologists about, he could well imagine why some might struggle to make enough to even keep themselves "in biscuits"-as Master Fransitart might say. Staring at this collection of gaudily dressed destroyers, he suddenly felt acutely anxious for monster-kind. How could they survive such a horde, incompetent or not?

"What is laughable," Carp continued, low-voiced, "is that there are many places in the Empire that would be fortunate indeed to see even one such inferior sort in half-a-dozen months, let alone a pugnator of proper capability. Such as these might make themselves a vizer's hoard from work in lonely habitations if they dared to forsake city comforts."

Rossamund thought of Wormstool sacked and Bleak Lynche in terror of the monsters marauding out in the Frugelle, isolated folks at the mercy of carnivorous nickers.Yet these honest folk were there to take the land for themselves by force, subtle or overt.

"Still," Carp rattled on in his dry, supercilious tone, "there is always work here if they wish to spurn themselves to the magnates and lords."

A slight, hungry-looking skold in front frowned vaguely over her shoulder, her eyes sunken and haunted. Mister Carp smiled a self-satisfied smile at her. As she was called forward, a leer-obvious with a sthenicon strapped to his face-walked near, clad in a haubardine of woodland hues. The fellow seemed to pause as he passed. Rossamund instinctively shied, pushing before Mister Carp, seeking to hide behind the man-of-business.

"My word! Steady on, young fellow," Carp exclaimed.

Yet in a hall filled with all manner of residual monstrous smells the leer did not pay him especial heed and moved on.

"Well-a-day, child, how might I aid you?" came a bored voice through the lattice in front of them.

Mister Carp gave a cough and cocked a brow toward the speaker.

"Oh." Rossamund stepped forward hastily, peering at the barely discernible figure-a knaving underwriter. He held up Europe's vaingloria and announced steadily, "I am the factotum of Europa, Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes, the Branden Rose."

"Are you now?" was the amused response. "You are certainly of lesser proportions to her usual man. Is he poorly?"

"Aye, I am, and no, he is not poorly. He died in the Brindleshaws not six months ago."

"This is all true and correct," Carp confirmed, leaning into the view of the lattice.

There was a moment's silence. "Oh" was the eventual response. "Well-a-day, Pragmathes Carp… I–I take it her ladyship will be expecting advertisements of work to be sent to her as is usual?"

"Aye," Rossamund replied, and then repeated the formula Europe had given him. "The Branden Rose wishes it to be known that she is at her usual seat and awaiting coursing work, either writ or singular."

"If you but pay the clerking fee, sir," the clerk stated with breathy efficiency, "two sous to register your mistress' intent and ten sequins for the clerk-at-foot to bring the advertisements to you.We shall fill an intent for you and send all writs and singulars to your mistress as soon as we might." There was a pause accompanied by the sound of pages turning behind the screen. "Cross your hands over your soul," the clerk eventually added.

With a quick blink, Rossamund obediently put one hand over the other, right where his ribs met his stomach, feeling the folds of the nullodoured bandage hidden beneath.

"Now answer me this if you would, sir," the underwriter declared with a slightly more officious tone. "Do you, upon your solemn, continuing and mortal affirmation, declare that you are the true and foremost representative of Europa of Naimes, astrapecrith and teratologist; that you accept all culpability should the aforesaid prove to be false whether by intent or ignorance; and that you accept that I, Dandillus Pym, Coursing Underwriter, inquisit this by general and representative authority in the name of His Most Serene Highness, the Emperor Haacobin, and of His Rightful Plenipotentiary, the Duke of the Sovereign State of Brandenbrass, and his Cabinet: how say you?"

"Ah-aye," Rossamund answered, understanding the intent of the question, if not the actual words. With that said, and monies paid from his own purse so as not to break the newly writ twenty-sou bill, he was back out on the steps of the grand knavery above the clatter and bustle, feeling not a little relieved that his first clerical duty as factotum was completed. By the light of the westering sun, Rossamund returned via takeny-coach to Brandenbrass' substantial suburbs, restored at last to the starkly glorious bosom of Cloche Arde after a long day in town.

Many hours earlier he had been deposited by Carp at the Dogget amp; Block alehouse, where, over a lunch of griddled scringings and tots of ol' touchy, Craumpalin had insisted he knew a better supplier of parts than Perseverance Finest.

"So artful is he," the old dispenser had waxed, "I fathom even this confectioner of whom thy mistress is so fond gets their finer properties from him."

This vaunted fellow proved to be a humble script-grinder by the name of Pauper Chives, found on Sink Street right by the pungent chalky waters of Middle Harbor.Yet the sheer size, excellence and completeness of his proporium-his salt-store-filled floor to ceiling with drawer upon drawer of parts and complete scripts-bore out Craumpalin's high estimation, and the saumiere's keen understanding and wise affability only elevated him in Rossamund's own esteem.

Now, finally returning home and in an acme of satisfaction, the young factotum clutched the most prized of his myriad purchases. First was a thick compleat-a listbook of scripts-its crisp wasp-paper pages bound in sturdy black ox-buff and tied shut with a ribbon of deep green velvet.

"Wasp paper," Pauper Chives had explained, "will get wet but not puff and wrinkle like the common kind, and the gauld-leather cover makes excellent protection… May it never be required."

The second was an exquisite pair of digitals that Craumpalin had insisted-with dogged generosity-upon buying for him They were compact devices of black enamel and silver-much smaller and more convenient to carry than stoups. "These are as fine as I have seen afore."The old fellow had smiled in satisfaction, pressing at the clasps of each of the six slots to prove their mechanism. "Wear them on thy belt or satchel-strap.They'll keep yer potives dry should thee get it in thy intellectuals to leap into another river."

Rossamund grinned to himself, fondly turning one of his sleek new devices over and over, admiring the compact knots of silverwork perfectly set in the glistening black enamel.