D Cornish - The Lamplighter

The Lamplighter-Marshal raised his hand, stopping Podious Whympre short. "There is no need and nothing gained from despoiling those old baths," he said firmly. "They have been here for longer than we, and are buried deeply enough, and no harm will come from the quiet potterings of faithful, incapacitated lighters."

"You already know of it, sir?" the Master-of-Clerks replied with a studied expression. "This-this continued unregistered, unrecorded activity? Why was I not informed… sir?"

"I do know of it, Clerk-Master Whympre," the Marshal replied, "and I iterate again it is not the case of most concern. I could well ask ye how it is that there is a way down from yer own chambers into these buried levels."

The Master-of-Clerks blanched. "It is a private store, sir. I had no idea it connected to regions more clandestine," he explained quickly.

Other questions continued. Rossamund felt unable to answer any of them to full satisfaction: did he have any inkling of where the gudgeon had come from?

No, sir, he did not. It had, by all evidence, been locked in the room rather than having arrived from somewhere. In the end he simply had to conclude that he truly had no idea of the how or the why or the where of the gudgeon's advent.

Did he recognize where he found the gudgeon?

No, sir, he did not.

Would he be able to find the place again-or give instructions to another to do the same?

Rossamund hesitated; he could only do his best, sir. He described his left-hand logic to solving the maze and as much of the actual lay of the passages and the rest as he could recall.

And all the while the Master-of-Clerks was looking at him with his peculiar, predatory gaze. Pile seemed to sulk, and said nothing.

"I will look into this, sir," Sebastipole declared. "Josclin is still not well enough; Clement and I shall take Drawk and some other trusty men and seek out this buried room." With that the lamplighter's agent left.

"If you could excuse me, Lamplighter-Marshal." Swill stood and bowed. "I must attend to pressing duties," he said with a quick look to Sebastipole's back.

"Certainly, surgeon," the Marshal replied. "Ye are free to go-and ye may depart too, clerk-master. Yer prompt action is commendable."

"And what of this young trespasser?" The Master-of Clerks peered down his nose at Rossamund. "I hope you will be taking him in hand.Whatever other deeds might or might not surround him, you cannot deny that he has contravened two most inviolate rules, and it is grossly unsatisfactory that he has violated my own offices."

"What I do with Prentice Bookchild is between him and me," the Marshal returned firmly. "Good night, Podious!"

With a polite and contrite bow the Master-of-Clerks left, his telltale and the surgeon following.

Grindrod was admitted in their stead, hastily dressed and looking slightly frowzy.

"Ah, Lamplighter-Sergeant!" the Marshal cried. "Ye seem to have been missing one of yer charges, but here I am returning him to ye."

"Aye, sir." Grindrod stood straight and, appearing a little embarrassed, gave Rossamund a quick yet thunderous glare. "Thank ye, sir."

"Not at all," the Marshal answered. "Ye make fine lampsmen, Sergeant-lighter. This young prentice has been doing the duties of a lamplighter even as his fellows sleep. Return him to his cot and set a strong guard over his cell row. Fell doings have been afoot. We shall discuss his deeds after."

The lamplighter-sergeant looked stunned. "Aye, sir." Thunder turned to puzzled satisfaction.

"Our thanks to ye, Prentice Bookchild," the Lamplighter-Marshal said to Rossamund. "Yer part here is done; ye played the man frank and true.Ye may turn in to yer cot at last. Be sure to report to Doctor Crispus tomorrow morning. Good night, prentice."

With that the interview was ended.

Rossamund left under the charge of Grindrod, feeling a traitor. While he was sent to sleep, he was aware of a growing bustle about as the soldiery of the manse were woken up to defend it from any other rever-men that might emerge from below.

"I don't know whether to castigate or commend ye, young Lately!" the lamplighter-sergeant grumped as he led the prentice along the passages. "Just get yer blundering bones to yer cot and I'll figure a fitting end for yer tomorrow."

For another night Rossamund readied himself in the cold dark and slept with his bed chest pulled across the door to his cell.

Rossamund awoke with the worst ache of head and body that he had ever known and his bladder fit to burst. He hurt like the aftermath of the most severe concussion he had ever received in harundo practice. For a time he could not remember much of yesterday, though a lurking apprehension warned him the memory would be unwelcome. With the sight of his salumanticum discarded on the floor and the bed chest blocking the door recollection struck. A gudgeon… a gudgeon in the forgotten cellars of the manse, right in the marrow of the headquarters of the lamplighters! A monster loose in Winstermill!

He dragged back the chest and opened the door to find Threnody there, leaning on the wall as if she had been waiting.

"You missed the most extraordinary pudding at mains last night," she said dryly. Evidently she had elected to speak to him again.

"Aye…" Rossamund knew by "extraordinary" she did not mean "good." Threnody had always hated the food served to the prentices, and the new culinaire was achieving new acmes of inedibility.

"You might be a poor conversationalist," she continued as they went to morning forming, completely heedless of the thick bandage about his head, "but at least you're interesting. Between Arabis having the others ignore me, and Plod mooning and staring all through the awful meal, it was a very long evening." She peered at him. "Where's your hat?" But by then Grindrod was shouting attention and all talk ceased.

In files out on the Cypress Walk it was obvious the manse was in a state of agitation, with the house-watch marching regular patrols about the Mead and the feuterers letting the dogs out on leads to sniff at every crevice and cranny. Under a louring sky the atmosphere of the fortress was tense and watchful.

"Do not be distracted by all this hustle ye see today, lads," Grindrod advised tersely. "There was an unwelcome guest in our cellars last night, but the rotted clenchpoop is done in now." He looked meaningfully at Rossamund. "Just attend to yer duties with yer regular vigor."

At breakfast the other prentices stared openly at Rossamund's bandaged head.

"How's it, Lately?" asked Smellgrove as Rossamund sat down with his fellows of Q Hesiod Gaeta. "Is the bee's buzz true?"

"What buzz?"

"That you came to hand strokes with a gudgeon last night," said Wheede, pointing to Rossamund's bound noggin.

"Ah, aye, it nearly ruined itself trying to destroy me."

"Pullets and cockerels!" said several boys on either side.

Insisting others shift to make room, Threnody sat next to him. "Have any of you others fought one before?" she asked knowingly.

Universal shakes of the head.

"Because I can tell you," she boasted, "that a full-formed lamplighter would struggle to win against one, let alone a half-done lamp boy."