D Cornish - Factotum

Once all was in place, the Branden Rose immediately went up to the ludion, drawing a line of spectators after her. With dancelike spins and vaults over the glossy dark boards of the broad hall, she tested the freedom of the harness. Watching on in bliss, Brugel sat with his assistant on a row of leather campaign stools beside the large fireplace of green stone at the far end of the ludion as the Branden Rose proved the suppleness and robustness of his creation. In joy he would frequently spring from his seat and hurry over to the fulgar to point out the virtues of his design or clap and cry compliments to the lady's grace.

"Brava! M'lady! Brava!You are a jewel amid jewels! How well you set off my cuts!"

Over the usual layers of white petticoats was a black soe coat of flaring frock and high fan-shaped collar that protected the nape and base of Europe's head. Bound in at the elbow and forearm by sturdy vambrins of stiffened black soe, its sleeves were loose and puffed. Unusually, they were made of a different cloth: a glossy delicate grass green that shifted hues as it moved to a warm pale yellow, and patterned with daisylike flowers of fiery red. Over the hem of the coat was fitted a second skirt split into four panels: the sides and back were black, finished in a band of cloth-of-silver with silver brocade; its front panel was an apron of the same patterned mercurial material as the sleeves. This was held to Europe's body by a broad sash of glossy black wrapped about her whole torso, binding her chest firmly, fastened at the back with frogging and finished in a large bow. Atop this she finally donned what Brugel called an eighth, a short pollern-coat of buff that barely covered her bosom, fastening down the left and under her arm, its collar and frogging brocaded in deep red.

Eyes alive with a joy Rossamund rarely saw, the fulgar watched herself-or rather, the new harness-in the long mirrors, bending and flexing, stretching seams as far as she could, extending cloth as far as it might, seeking small adjustments. Standing with Claudine and Kitchen by the tall windows, Rossamund watched his mistress' dance with breath held.

When she was finished, it was to a small clatter of wondering applause.

"This will do nicely as my new Number 3, Mister Brugel," she said matter-of-factly, a patina glowing on her wan brow. "You have excelled as always."

The armouriere beamed.

With that she departed the ludion to change into more domestic attire. In the gray hours Rossamund felt himself shaken awake.

"Mister Rossamund, sir." It was Pallette, anxious, fretting at Rossamund's hand.

"Miss Europe is in trouble?" he asked, rubbing at the blear clouding his senses, squinting into the steadily brightening bright-limn the alice-'bout-house gripped so shakily.

"No, sir, no! She is well," she returned, puzzled. "It's Mister Vinegar-that is to say, Master Fransitart, sir-"

"What about Master Fransitart?" Rossamund sat up quickly, suspicions coming home to roost.

"Nectarius here says he let him out after we had all turned in last night, opened the gate again under promise that Master Fransitart be back by now, but he has not shown as agreed!"

Standing at the foot of the stairs in the vestibule hall, the nightlocksman, bearing his own bright-limn and looking sheepish with battered tricorn wrung in fist, told the same story.

"Did he say where he was going?" Rossamund demanded.

"Na-"

"He's in here, me hearties!" came Fransitart's own faltering voice, trying to sound strong as he called from the hiatus. There they found him, old and wan, grotesquely lit by the swinging limnulight. Head lolling, eyes red-rimmed and watery, the ex-dormitory master peered up at him groggily. Instead of a broken limb there was no limb at all, just a neatly capelined stump just below the shoulder.

"Master Frans!" Rossamund cried.

"He must've just turned in," Nectarius grumbled querulously, "while I was gettin' Miss Pallette 'ere."

"Pallette, get Crispus!" the young factotum ordered. "Nectarius, hold the doors for me!" Careless of the spectacle, the young factotum lifted the old vinegaroon from his couch and carried him bodily from the hiatus to his room, ignoring Fransitart's grizzling complaints that he could walk on his own!

The nightlocksman was so stunned at this small show of Rossamund's strength that he forgot to prop open the servants' port.

"The door, Nectarius!" Rossamund barked, not caring about the puzzled and uneasy looks the nightlocksman gave him as he struggled by and on to Fransitart's cot.

"Blood and bruises, man! Are you always the source of such dramas?" Crispus demanded of the old dormitory master as, clad in dressing gown, his hair a feral spray of white, the physician hurried into the pallet. "Where is your arm at now, sir!" All mildness gone, he rebuked Fransitart with a martial rigor Rossamund had seen him use only against the Master-of-Clerks. "The erreption of a limb is no simple occasion; implements must be thoroughly thatigated, vital vessels duly cautered! What backlot shambleman did this favor for you?"

Plainly addled by some kind of soporating spirit, Fransitart ducked his head and muttered a sullen obscenity.

"It'd be Master Meech," Craumpalin interjected in a guiltily quiet voice, struggling with crutches to rise from his own cot.

"And pray who is he?" the physician demanded hotly.

"He served as a loblolly on the Venerable with us, got a dischargement back in seventy-one on account of his sick mother and his game leg; settled in this here city on Change Lane to take up taxidermy."

"A taxidermist!" Crispus almost spat the word.

"Always loved stuffin' his animals." Fransitart chuckled woozily. "Had a whole cabin squashed with 'em by the end, an' 'is shop is to the top with 'em… I reckon he must give service to a great lot of folks, 'cause 'e 'as some right sharp bone knives handy…"

"Master Frans!" Rossamund added some chiding of his own.

With a snort of reproach, Crispus bent to examine the stump closely. "Well, you can thank the course of the Lots and the will of Providence too that this Meech fellow seems to be handy with his business.You fellows!" he commanded Nectarius and Wenzel, standing as humbly as they could by the door as Kitchen appeared yawning. "Fetch me extra pillows. Mister Craumpalin! Master Bookchild! I am sure you know the script for birchet and vauqueline-"

"Aye, that we do…"

"Then go and test them. Let us hope this Meech is as good as the knot and fit of his bandaging suggest!"

At this, the young factotum and the old dispenser meekly obeyed, brewing as fast as sensitive processes of chemistry and Craumpalin's crutch-slow gait would allow. In his haste, Rossamund left the old dispenser to come at his own pace from the saumery and hurried ahead with the vauqueline to find Europe just arrived at the old salts' humble quarters. She looked unruffled at such an unseemly hour yet was clearly unhappy at the fuss.

"Well betide you, madam." The physician greeted Europe in his stiffest physicking manner. "Our friend is as well as can be expected, though perhaps feeling a little foolish…"

Despite the meek slump in his shoulders, an obstinate gleam in the vinegaroon's eye spoke most eloquently that he was yet determined in the set of his course.

The fulgar took in the entire scene in an inkling. "The break not enough for you, Master Vinegar?" she asked coolly.

"Why did you do it, Master Frans?" Rossamund breathed.

The ex-dormitory master regarded his onetime charge somberly, eyes full of a thousand thoughts.

Folding her arms, Europe leaned against the doorjamb. "Indeed, Master Vinegar!" she said huskily. "Simply removing the offending patch of flesh would have sufficed, sir. What use are you to me with one limb?"

Grumbling incoherently, Fransitart became genuinely sheepish. "Vinegars get their wings off for bone breaks all th' time and still go on a-servin'…" was about all that Rossamund could make out, and maybe, "Ye need not fear-I'll not be a make-weight to ye."