D Cornish - Factotum

"As have I, sir," the young factotum concurred. "And treacle to brew when I get there," he added with an anxious glance to the glow of the latening sun, hiding now behind steep roofs and making cryptic shadows of chimneys and spouts.

"Treacle, is it?" Rookwood seemed suddenly more attentive. "As in plaudamentum?"

"The same, sir."

"I take it then that you are a factotum?" The young man's interest was definitely piqued.

"That I am, sir." Rossamund doffed his thrice-high and gave a slight yet gentlemanly bow. "Factotum to the Branden Rose," he said proudly, then immediately regretted it as needless showing away. With another bow to cover his error he made to leave.

However, the effect of this revelation on his companion was marked.

"Come, come, fine fellow," Rookwood declared with a new animation, halting Rossamund with a light touch on his upper arm. "I was so eager to honor my appointments I have done you discredit! You have helped me at my lowest and not left me in my embarrassment.The least I can return is some quisquillian deed as thank-you."

"Oh-uh-really, it is not-," Rossamund tried to say, wondering just what a quisquillian deed might be.

"Please, please! I insist you join me this evening-my appointment can become yours as well; I am diaried to join good friends at a rather well-acclaimed panto-show, The Munkler's Court-hilariously cackleworthy, or so I am told. Have you seen it?"

"Ah… no, sir, I have not." Rossamund did not know how to proceed. He had barely met the fellow, yet… what a grand finish it would be to step out with this flash son of the celebrated Rear Admiral Fyfe-a hero of both the pamphlets and real matter. On either hand, he had to get back to test the treacle, and said as much to Rookwood.

For a moment the young gent pressed a knuckle to musingly pursed lips. "I propose a plan that shall have you doing both," and even as he said this, he hailed a takeny-coach with an economic wave and a streetwise wink to the driver. "I shall accompany you to wherever you need to be to make your plaudamentum and, that done, you can don your gladdest threads and we shall make directly for the Hobby Horse, where the panto is playing."

Rossamund hesitated in an agony of indecision. Curious and cautious in one, he agreed, and in the very next breath was aboard the takeny. "I've never seen a panto before," he admitted as they rattled along the darkening lanes back to Cloche Arde.

"Ah, Mister Factotum, then you will be in for a spectacle," Rookwood enthused. "Memories of my first show are still my most vivid. They are like an ever-giving gift; I have to but recall it and I return to bliss. I hope it turns the same for you, sir!"

In the waxing gloom Rossamund could see scruffy black-coated streetlimners in stovepipe hats emerging to wind the shorter, distinctive red-posted seltzer lamps with their flimsy hooks-slight devices, nothing like the heavy martial fodicars employed by the Imperial Lighters of the Emperor's Highroads.

Keen to have Europe's plaudamentum made and be swiftly away again, the young factotum sprang enthusiastically from the takeny as it drew to a halt in the yard of Cloche Arde, leaving the young white-haired gent to keep the hired lentum waiting. "I might be some time," Rossamund called behind him, before dashing through the front door of his new home.

"Take all the revolutions of the clock you require, sir!" Rookwood proclaimed munificently through the carriage window, ogling Cloche Arde with untoward fascination. "We have the time, and my friends will happily accept my excuses when they find who it is I have brought with me."

At mains on her own in the solar, Europe cocked Rossamund a quizzical look as he bustled in to her with her late-made treacle and breathy apologies.

"And here was I, worried you'd chosen naval life after all…," she said mildly, a droll glimmer in her eye. "Ugh! Step away, little man," she said curtly with a flick of her hand. "You stink of the Grume! Clearly your day was spent at the seaside…" Her draught drunk, she had no objections to his request to go out again. "I am not your mother, little man, to tell you how best to spend your free hours. I myself shall be elsewhere this evening, visiting with the Lady Madigan, Marchess of the Pike-one of the few folk in this city worth the time-and would have invited you with me… But no matter. Go, see, enjoy."

Now that he knew of this option, Rossamund was mightily curious to accompany Europe and see the manner of person she might call friend. Yet having first accepted Rookwood's gesture, he stayed to his original course.

"Incidentally," the fulgar continued as Rossamund turned to go, "your masters passed through this afternoon, rather keen to see you. Evidently you did not meet with them today, so I informed them that I have decided they will drive for me. They shall return tomorrow for a proper interview." About to turn back to her meal, she added, "Oh, and there is something waiting for you in your chamber."

Hurrying to his set, Rossamund found a harness case open on the chest at the end of his bed. Inside was laid the most costly and truly splendorous set of fresh-gaulded proofing-evidently Brugelle labored on a Domesday. Foremost was a broad-frocked coat in the richest midnight soe curling with bracken-frond brocade, stitched in cloth-of-silver along its hems and cuffs and pockets. With it came a quabard half rouge, half viole-scarlet and pale magenta-and a sash checkered with the same colors. The mottle of Naimes. With the help of Pallette it took the long side of a quarter-hour to have it all properly adjusted. Next, he hung the two digitals-already charged with repellents and fulminants-from beneath his sash at either hip. When all was finally fitted, Rossamund admired the delicate shimmer of the swarthy silk, the gleam of the silver fancywork, the sheen of the black enamel, feeling like the fine-dressed prince of some sumptuous court. After a quick redistribution of valuables from old coat to magnificently new, he returned, all breathless thanks, downstairs.

Shooing aside his gratitude, Europe had him turn about thrice to show the fine cut, inquiring as he slowly spun, "Tell me, Rossamund, what play will you see?"

"Oh, The Munkler's Court, I believe," he answered with rapid gusto, peering from the front hall through the door into the solar. "At the Hobby Horse."

"Truly?" The fulgar raised a knowing brow. "An interesting choice…," she said slowly and gave Rossamund a pointed glance he did not understand. "Have a care, little man" was all she said in parting.

"I shall," he said eagerly as he turned to go, yet as he stepped out to the waiting takeny, her warning repeated inwardly like a twist in his conscience.

Slotted on Paneglot Street in the playwrights' suburb of Pantomime Lane between drab three-story tenements, the Hobby Horse was a brilliant, blatant red, with a domed roof of stark cobalt blue. The apex of the crimson facade was topped with a curling escutcheon in white bearing the head and legs of a laughing horse.

Beneath it, set in hollows, were two pallid statues, the ancient patrons of the stage: the immortal blank-masked clown Ratio in comic pose on the right, and on the left the ageless tragedian Stillicho, wrapped in heavy drapes and reaching down imploringly to high-minded theatasts and common vigil-night revelers alike.