D Cornish - The Lamplighter

In his pocket his buff-leather wallet was bulging full with traveling papers, reissued after the ruin his old ones had become on his way to Winstermill. There was also a work docket already bearing its first remarks: the period of his service as a prentice and the tasks undertaken, by which was a "CS" for "Completed to Satisfaction"; under "Conduct" was the comment "Late for prenticing period" and two small "i's" for his impositions-pots-and-pans with the now-vanished Mother Snooks. It was all signed off by the Master-of-Clerks himself, now the Marshal-Subrogat.

With these papers was a fair wad of folding notes and coin-his three months' wages as a prentice and a large portion of the money Europe had given to him in High Vesting. As for a hat, there had been no time to replace it, and so here he was venturing out with little more than the bandage about his head.

The east wind whistled low on the Harrowmath, the usual odor of the long grass rank with the rot of sodden vegetation. Mixing with the flat nonodor of his newly applied Exstinker, it became an unpleasant half stink in Rossamund's nostrils. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and sighed his melancholy. An untimely departure, an uncertain way ahead, and Numps left in the rough care of the lighters, yet Rossamund was glad to be out of Winstermill and on the road once more. He even entertained the hope he might see Europe on the way through.

He looked down at the letter and opened it, his hands slightly trembling.

It was dated the nineteenth of Pulvis, Solemnday-almost a week ago.

Rossamund,

I have to tell ye of the profound and sorrowful news that on the night of the 5th of this month, the marine society was burnt down and that Madam Opera did perish in the fire along with, to my ever-living grief and shame, many children and Master Pinsum too, with valuables and papers burnt or maybe stolen.

Verline and we other masters all survived. Perhaps we should not have lived with so many young kilt. But survive we have and are seeking now to find berths for all the poor younkers made wastrel once more.

That wretched utterworst Gosling set the spark, or so it appears. Barthomaeus and I chased at rumors of him a'watching the building many times afore the fire, but obviously turned up naught.The splints say he has fled the city. He always was a yellow-gutted dastard and I should have ended him long ago but for the restraint of conscience-and Verline, bless her.

With all that has got to be done for the tots it appears that Craumpalin and I shall be arriving to ye later than expected, but can't be knowing when. Expect us maybe in two months.

With great respect and sorrow etc.

Frans, Mstr, Ex-Gnr.

I am sorry about being so long in scratching this down and sending it on to ye, but our labors have not let me do so sooner.Thanks to ye for yer own letter dated 13th of Pulchrys, it survived the fire and we esteem it like treasure. Hold yer course, my boy, hold yer course-I know it is hard. Remember I said once that paths need never stay fixed.

Also Craumpalin sends greeting: he says that he is most proud and very happy with the usefulness of his bothersalts and tells ye (as do I) to keep wearing his Exstinker, if ye do not already.

Miss Verline is safe with her sister and her new niece and would send ye her best-as ye well know-if she knew of this letter.

Well-fare-ye!

Rossamund could not believe what was written. He read again. "… the night of the 5th of this month…" That was the very night the horn-ed nickers had attacked Threnody and her sisters in their carriage.Yet it was not until his third time through, slowly and painfully, that the full impact of his old dormitory master's terrible news struck home. He turned his face away from Threnody, hiding in the collar of his pallmain, and wept as he had not wept in the longest time, letting all the bleakness sob out. He wept for the dear dead children, for Master Pinsum, and even for Madam Opera, who may not have been the kindest, but was by no means the worst; for the grief caused to his beloved carers; for fury at Gosling's malice. The fury passed but the grief remained, and Rossamund lost himself in sad, wordless reveries, only vaguely heedful of the progress of the carriage as it followed the Pettiwiggin along the Harrowmath.

They were passing through the Briarywood when he roused at last with thoughts of Fransitart's arrival-and dear Craumpalin coming too. I must write to let them know I will not be at Winstermill.

"What's wrong with you, lamp boy?" Threnody said, her voice raised only a little over the dull rumble of the lentum."Why do you cry?" She looked at Fransitart's letter. "Who is the correspondence from?"

Rossamund became suddenly very aware of the girl: aware of her proximity; of his unwanted tears. He wiped at them quickly, sniffing impatiently. "My old dormitory master back in Boschenberg…," he answered reluctantly. "He… he sends sad news."

"Sad news?" Threnody folded the duodecimo in her lap.

"My old home was burned down by an old foe," Rossamund managed. "Madam Opera died in the fire. She was the owner… and a… a mother, I suppose-in a strange way. She named me-marked it in the book… "

"You're a better soul than me, Rossamund."

"How?"

"You weep over the death of some wastrel proprietress, yet I can only wish my very own mother might perish in a fire."

With a frown, Rossamund returned to the window and broodily observed the passing scene. He knew she was just trying to be kind. It did not help that she was not very good at it.

The post-lentum clopped between the twin keeps of Wellnigh House without hesitation, under the Omphalon, and on through to the Roughmarch. With a feeling very much like going through the Axles of Boschenberg, Rossamund realized with equal parts dread and expectancy that he had never been farther east than this point, that he was hurtling into what were, for him, unknown lands.

A great-lamp at every bend, the Roughmarch Road twisted serpentlike through a valley clotted with thorny plants of many kinds-sloe, briar, boxthorn and blackberry, its spiny runners thickly stickling the verge. As with the wild grasses of the Harrowmath, fatigue parties were regularly sent out from Wellnigh House and Tumblesloe Cot to pull and prune these plants, to resist the threwd and deny monsters a hide from which to ambush.Yet either side of the way was only partially hacked and cleared, and Rossamund could still feel the haunting watchfulness here, strong but strangely restrained. He stared at the high bald hills, dark and silent, and pulled up the door sash to keep the threat outside, glad he did not have to work the lamps on this stretch.

If Threnody noticed the threwd, she did not show it. Indeed, she started to hum as she read her book and paid Rossamund and the rest of the world little heed.

They drove down out of the hills where a creek bubbled alongside the Wormway, spilling over lichen-covered rocks, beneath twisted roots of writhen, leafless trees and south under the road to make a bog at the foot of a short cliff. In as much time as it took to walk to Wellnigh House from Winstermill, they were passing the walls of Tumblesloe Cot, not pausing there either. The cothouse was built away from the highroad, right up against the cliffs that marched upon the eastern flanks of the hills. Nothing could be seen of it but the stonework curtain wall and the tops of a handful of high chimneys. They were in foreign lands now-the great divide between the Idlewild and the rest of the Empire had been crossed.

"Welcome to the Placidine," said Threnody. "Dovecote Bolt is next, at the junction with another road; if you left the highroad and took this other pathway north it would lead you to my old home, Herbroulesse."

Rossamund looked at his peregrinat maps and saw the path she was talking of and her home too, both important enough to be mentioned. He did not want to be, but he was actually impressed.While it had stood, Madam Opera's marine society had never featured on any map he knew. "What will your mother think of what you're doing," he asked, "going off to dangerous cothouses?"