D Cornish - Factotum

Scarcely missing some limnlass lighting the way of a grog-swaying couple along the street, the takenyman deposited the two passengers on the very edge of the panto-going night steppers. Censured by other takeny-drivers for daring to halt in their way, and in his own hurry to be off again with another fare, the takenyman demanded his fee with a snarl.

"If you get this'un, Mister Bookchild," Rookwood said as he reached for his wallet, "I'll go in for the entry."

The wait at Cloche Arde made the price steep, yet Rossamund had sufficient change from the original twenty sous folding money and the refund of the crossing fee and was happy to cover his share of the night. Intent on some destination well within the blue-and-yellow foyer of the Hobby Horse, Rookwood took him by the cuff and wheedled them through the squeeze. Close with a confusion of perfumes, rumspice and the breath of a hundred souls, the panto house bubbled with every variety of accent: familiar Bosch, Brandenard with its flatter vowels, near-incomprehensible Gott, the Patricine lilt, the rolling passion of Sedian voices-these and more, all raised in animated and amiable clamor. Beggarly gleedupes moved through it all, deep trays full of folios and overripe vegetable matter hanging from their shoulders, boasting the low, low price of their articles. "Songs for the singing and fruit for the throwing!"

Amid the crush and the magnificence Rookwood finally found his friends: a trio of young women in peculiar costume standing by a sky blue pilaster. They made an aloof group, maintaining space about themselves with long looks aimed at anyone insensible enough to come too near. At Rossamund's approach they turned this disapproval on him.

"Hale night, young damasels," Rookwood cried to them. "What's to do with you?"

"We are a-puzzle, Mister Fyfe, wondering what manner of creature you have brought us?" the middle of the trio demanded. She was dressed mannishly-a little like Europe-in shimmering black frock coat with high collar and long cuffs, the top of her tall boots edged with white fur. "Is this the reason you are so late?"

"Mister Bookchild," Rookwood said, smiling reassuringly, "my chums." With open palm he gestured to the leftmost, a short girl, poorly pale and wrapped neck-to-toe warm in a cloak of peacock blue with a collar of fur in a similar hue. "First may I name Frangipanni of Worms, come to study skolding at the Saumachutra, dear confidante and rent-sharer."

About her head and neck Frangipanni wore a blue wimple topped by a shaggy hispinster of the same cerulean pelt; across her mouth was a deep prus spoor-a thick band reaching from ear to ear and darkening her top lip, the mark of a skold… With the narrow, tilted eyes of her race she regarded Rossamund stonily, yet acknowledged him with a curtailed bow.

Rossamund lifted his hat politely.

"Here, with her excellent questions," Rookwood continued, indicating the middle girl, her face spoored with thin black spikes coming down from either eye to her jaw and wearing a small thrice-high fixed to her black hair with tines, "is Eustacia Brick-"

Glowering at Rossamund as if to shrivel the very contents of his soul, the girl cleared her throat very loudly and pointedly.

"I mean," Rookwood corrected, "Miss Avarice-raised on the Brandentown high streets just as I."

Composing herself, the one who named herself Avarice blinked at him languidly. "Good evening," she murmured.

With a name like Eustacia Brick, Rossamund could hardly blame her for the change. He doffed his thrice-high to her as well.

"Lastly-yet equally"-Rookwood directed attention to the final girl, most notable in that she wore a high crown of mauve wax-paper-"is Madamielle Trudgette, sent up from the south by her parents much exercised by her frolics at home and saving coin for Sinster."

Madamielle Trudgette loured at her presenter, her pale eyes made fierce by the curling black spoors figured completely about them. Wrapped tight in winds of fine, almost gossamer cloth of richly delicate pink, she clutched a thin staff to her side, much like a fuse in dimensions but with a five-pointed star at the top.

Saving coin for Sinster… Rossamund had a sudden flash of Europe as she was in the portrait in her file-youthful, hopeful, resolute on becoming an astrapecrith. Feeling a strange connection with this Trudgette, Rossamund graced the pink-swathed yearnling-girl with a slightly deeper beck.

Attention fixed on her friend, Trudgette ignored him completely. "I am only doing as Epitome Bile or ze Casque Rogine or Violette Lune or even ze Branden Rose 'ave done," she said defensively. "Free from Mama and Papa, I am set for ze life of adventure."

"Well, happy day for you, m'dear." Rookwood beamed. "For my new friend," he said, patting Rossamund warmly on the back, "is none other than the factotum of the very same Branden Rose you so enthusiastically emulate! Is that not so, sir?"

"It is-" The young factotum was stopped in the face of their flowering amazement as each girl stared at him as if he were the Emperor himself.

"Truly!" Avarice breathed, suddenly sociable.

" 'Ow did ze come by such an admirable appointment?" Trudgette asked, wide-eyed and now not looking nearly as fierce.

Unbalanced by such rare and open admiration, Rossamund could not help but boast, "I–I make the best treacle she has ever had."

"I thought her script-fellow was supposed to be an authentic full-formed man who came with a box on his face." Avarice's delight was soured with a slight yet sudden skepticism. "What is his name…"

"Licurius," Trudgette answered quickly, her accent giving the foul fellow's name a lyrical lift it did not deserve. "But 'e was nicker-killed zis six months passing."

"How did you know?" Rossamund was a little thrown that utter strangers might have tell of this.

"Because…," Rookwood answered, pulling a folded bundle of paper from his pocket, "we like to know all the doings of the lahzarines and other orgulars." He tapped the top sheet.

TheWasp, it read in gaudy print. It was a scandal.

A small knot clutching in his innards, Rossamund hoped that the Defamiere was on this fellow's reading list. Clearly, these four excited young souls were obsequines, ardent devotees of monster-hunters and especially lahzars. Rossamund peered at them guardedly.

"There, we are all met!" Rookwood declared happily. At the shimmering hoom of a gong he added, "Shall we go in?" He grasped Rossamund's arm. "Come along, the show is about to begin!"

Letting himself be carried along in this bluster of jovial enthusiasm, the young factotum, with his new companions, was shown by a footman through a door to a balcony stall. These were very good seats-close to the small stage and looking right over the boards.

Though dim, ready for the imminent performance, the heaven-blue theater was far taller and deeper than it appeared possible from its small front upon the street. Every edge and skirting and corner was gilt-rimmed, the long ceiling painted to look like a bank of fluffy moon-shone clouds warm-lit beneath as if illuminated by the radiance of the stage itself. Every balcony stall was filling with periwigs, gleaming silk, feathery frills and peering lorgnettes, the benches all but taken by scratch-bobs, straw bonnets and tricorns.

Rookwood waved to some associate down in the inferior benches. Rossamund saw the briefest glimpse of a thin fellow with round spectacles beckoning in return before all useful light was extinguished.

Only the soft glow from the musicians' pit to the left of the open stage remained.

The young factotum's chest thumped in anticipation.

To the swell of reedy nasal piping and clashing tambourine, the stage light flared and the panto began. Before a backdrop of wide idealized wildlands, tableau pines and elegant poplars dotting low and aesthetically pleasing hills, a man emerged from the side shadows. Dressed in an elaborate silver frock coat and silver-gray wig, the fancy's face was paste-white, his cheeks garishly rouged. For all his finery he held an ax that he flourished like some overly eager woodsman. "Lards, ladles and gentlespoons!" he cried with high-speaking elocution and many a rrrrolling "r" that reminded Rossamund of poor Master Pinsum, burned up in the fire of the marine society. "Our opening offerrring we brrring before you is sure to titivate your humours with its happy hijinkerrry. Here now the Buffoon Courteous Players playing the Thrrree Brrrothers Hob!"