D Cornish - Factotum

I must cease, for we have just now been summoned to yet another review of informal inquiry. Of Discipline and Limb, Lamplighter's Agent amp;c The Considine

"Ah, excellent…," Europe said eventually with feline satisfaction, rousing her factotum from his concentration once more. She lifted a wad of papers that had been a part of the mail-a large stack of pamphlets. "These should interest you," she said, reading one briefly before laying them with a flop on the seat beside him. Most obvious was an edition of the Defamiere, and with it Quack! The Mordant Mercer, The Viper, Wasp and several more-every one a scandal or low-toned pamphlet, and all the latest issue. Topmost was a list in Mister Carp's hand showing the name of each publication and beside each, page numbers.

"Miss Europe?" Rossamund marveled, folding both missives neatly to put them safe in his inside weskit pocket where their words might be close to his soul.

"I have not lowered my tastes, if that is what you are thinking," she said flatly, fixing him with a pointed look. "Turn to each of those pages and read… A most excellent retort," she concluded with a contented half smile.

Doing as he was bidden, Rossamund discovered in every pamphlet an article without title, featured near the front of the paper-usually the fifth page. The Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes wishes to refute previous claims held in other papers of low repute that she improperly exercised her born right of QGU in the defense of one of lower station against the designs of greater men bent on infamy. Her accusers have since sought to denounce her publicly for such an honest service with implications of the basest sort, which can only be seen as regrettable and a symptom of their own villainy. Their intention base and self-interested gain, they embroil themselves most wholly and most treacherously with the darkest of all trades.Through the artifice of their own cunning they have eluded the just reach of Imperial Notice. We are now honor-bound to expose these dastards as base traitors. We properly await a swift righting of this great wrong.

"It seems I am not without my defenders," Europe said archly. "A rigorous counter-offend to their radix," she added, Rossamund well recognizing terms of the Hundred Rules. "Thank you, Mister Finance…" Laying a bundle of papers down, she gave her young factotum an astute look. "Rossamund… Monsiere Trottinott has inspired me," she said suddenly. "I am going to hold a grand gala, and not a simple silk rout, but a sortire I'travesty-a come-as-you-fancy ball."

Come-as-you-fancy? The young factotum regarded her in blinking bafflement. Where folks dress up as kings or heldins or fabulous creatures or any other fancy notion? "I thought you held galas and fetes and routs and all to be interminably dreary," he said.

The Branden Rose blinked at him. "They are, exceedingly so… unless someone of genuine refinement holds them. Ours shall be especially grand, in honor of my successful coursing venture."

"But the knave wasn't a success," Rossamund thoughtlessly returned.

Europe became rather still, fixing him with a withering expression. "Was it not…," she said in wintry tones. "My guests will not know that, will they?"

Bobbing his head, her factotum conceded. "No, they would not… What of Pater Maupin?" he dared, speaking with slow caution.

Europe's eyes twinkled with occult thoughts. "He may wait" was all she said.

Rossamund frowned.

"You, my sour factotum, I charge with the task of preparing its food and decoration. Do not goggle, Rossamund! Kitchen and Clossette will be your aides, of course, and I am sure Doctor Crispus and even your old masters could lend their capabilities in help." She smiled a sly smile. "As for myself, I shall take charge over the night's entertainments."

Taking a deep breath, he asked, "When will it be?"

"Midwich, the 20th of this month" was the quick reply.

Rossamund did a hasty calculation of the time he had to accomplish impossibility.

A week from today!

Installed in downstairs apartments of their own at the back of Cloche Arde, Fransitart and Craumpalin received the news of the grand gala with profound excitement.

"There's a kindly change o' wind I weren't expectin'," the ex-dormitory master exclaimed. "Here's me thinking it would be all clubs an' bruises an' hidden threats.What fancy will ye be dressing as, Rossamund?"

Knuckle to chin, Rossamund pondered a moment. "I don't rightly know… Myself? That is fancy enough, isn't it?" he concluded with a wry twist to his mouth.

"What of that More-pins looby?" Craumpalin asked, puckering his brow, his inquiring grimace making his face disconcertingly gaunt. "Thy mistress made to be prodigiously fixed on his just desserts. Seems a mite uncharacterly for her ladyship to let this More-pins off the hook so simply."

Rossamund made a bemused face. "I do not reckon she has," he said.

Taking their rest from the rigors of the journey in a parlor overlooking the sluggish flow of the Midwetter, the old salts-as yet to receive their own communication from her-were greatly impressed by Verline's letter.

Craumpalin raised his glass tankard of soothing saloop. "Will be nice to have a place to settle to, once Rossamund finds his feet and we lose the use of ours."

"Aye," Fransitart pondered solemnly. "I tell ye, I regret not bein' able to reform that Gosling."

Leg elevated on a turkoman, the old dispenser shifted awkwardly in his seat and snorted. "It'd take one hundred of you and one hundred of Verline one hundred years to even begin to set one twisted part of Gosling's inward places aright."

"Mayhap," the ex-dormitory master returned. "The mines of Euclasia will do naught to soothe his mucky soul, neither."

"Thee wants to light him away to some sweeter hole, Frans?" Craumpalin chided. "Take him under thy scrawny white oar and make good the rotten heart? Some folks just won't be learned under a softer hand."

"Aye," replied Fransitart sadly. "Aye…" He gave Rossamund an unhappy and uncommonly confounded look.

The young factotum smiled sadly in return.

"Well, we won't be let off th' hook simple," Fransitart finally said. "It's going to be fetch an' carry unceasin' from now till next Midwich."

"Aye," Rossamund concurred. "More than enough practicable to do even for you, Master Pin."

"Aye," Fransitart growled. "If I can get some vittles into 'im first!"

The old dispenser threw him a wink. At the guidance of Kitchen and Clossette, Rossamund quickly learned that a grand gala was no simple dance, though certainly dancing was a central part; it was rather a great unfolding of entertainments, to be held on almost every floor of Cloche Arde.

The hiatus was to serve as a coat room and milling space. The billiard room by Rossamund's set was to be opened, but the other end of that level was to be occluded by a bom e'do screen guarded by Nectarius. The parlors and drawing rooms of the third story were set aside to host an oratory for rigorous debates directed by a set of orators; a glossary for thrilling gossip at the lead of a pair of talented glossicutes; and a leviate where souls could be refreshed while a quintet of fiddlers played to sooth overexercised nerves. There was to be a pantomime in the second drawing room and even a benign mesmerist to play tricks with people's senses. The ludion was set to be the main dance hall, the expanse of mirrors of the back wall folding aside and the partitions of chambers beyond-which to Rossamund's astonishment turned out to be quite portable-removed, opening up the entire top story of Cloche Arde into an ample floor. Here, behind the stairs, a stand was laid for a pair of orchestras to play upon in rotating shifts of an hour each.