D Cornish - The Lamplighter

They arrived at Compostor in the mist of day's end. Bigger than Hinkerseigh, it was built on a broad hill, its curtain walls descending into foggy vales on all sides. There was a genuine air of money in this small city of long, broad avenues of stately sycamores and multistoried manors, of wide parks as green and tame as the land without was gray and wild.

"Tonight we shall stay somewhere out of the way," Europe pronounced as they were granted entry to the city by the heavy-harnessed watch. She directed the lentermen to a hostelry called the Wayward Chair. From the outside it was a modest establishment, but the room proved of a high standard at odds with the humble facade. Regardless, Threnody oozed dissatisfaction. Throughout the leg from the Brisking Cat to here, she had sat gingerly, leaning forward to spare herself the bumping of the carriage seat. Now she looked terribly wayworn and irritated, lagging behind as they were shown to their rooms by a pucker-faced bower maid.

They were successfully installed in the apartment: luggage deposited, beds turned, the fire stoked, food brought and Europe's treacle brewing in the kitchens. Without a word, Threnody exited the room, her makings in hand, slamming the door as she left.

"I don't know what ails her." Rossamund felt he needed to apologize.

"It is just night-pains, little man."

"Night-pains?"

"Indeed." Europe sat in a glossy leather recliner before the hearth. "All lahzars must endure them and wits more so than fulgars. It is the cost of having these unusual organs inside-the price of power, if you like. A little bit of justice, I do not doubt some might think."

After about as much time as it took to brew plaudamentum the girl returned, still in foul spirits. She stomped right past the two, glaring at them both, and disappeared into the adjoining room where a bower maid was turning down the beds.There was a shout and the maid hurried out, looking even more puckered and near tears.

"That will be all, my dear," Europe said, handing the quickly brightening maid a whole sou. "You may go."

Listening to the thump and bluster of the girl in the bedroom, Rossamund asked, "Miss Europe? How can we stop Swill and the Master-of-Clerks?"

"I have warned that Saphine lass you may remember from the Cat, and you have written your letters." Europe peered at him, her hazel eyes intent, thoughtful. "Beyond that there is not much else, and even what we have is insubstantial. I think you will find it very hard to lay a solid accusation against Swill or his clerk-master. If they have been able to carry on as black habilists right under the lighters' feet, then you may be certain, Rossamund, they will have all traces of their dabblings well in hand and can easily obliterate any trails that might lead to them."

"But I fought with their rever-man!" Rossamund persisted. "I saw the flayed skin! There-there was even that butcher's truck that smelled of swine's lard, just like Poundinch used to hide in his cargo, that's why the Trought attacked!"

"At this instant it would be what you say against what they would say," Europe countered calmly.

"But we have Sebastipole! No one doubts a falseman!"

The fulgar took a deep breath. "And I am sure they would have a falseman of their own. Use one falseman to cancel the other out-typical Imperial politics."

"Who can stop them, then?" Rossamund despaired, an image of Laudibus Pile's sneering face looming in his imagination.

"Well, it certainly won't be you, little man, will it-sent out here at their very behest?"

"No." Rossamund hung his head.

"And with Whympre the current lord of Winstermill," Europe continued, pressing the point, "I cannot see how they will be stopped in a hurry."

"You could, Miss Europe."

Europe laughed a strange, sardonic laugh. "Oh, little man!" she sighed. "Rescuing empires from their own corruption is not my game. You'll just have to trust that all wicked things bring themselves to an end in the end."

"But who says what is wicked?" Rossamund blurted.

"Enough now," the fulgar said with sudden impatience. "You wax too philosophical for weary travelers."

The young lighter ducked his head in apology.

"Do not speak of these things to another, do you understand me?" Europe said sharply. "They will not believe you, and word of any loose talk or unguarded accusation might find its way to the wrong ears."

"Aye, Miss Europe." The young lighter retreated to his comfortable bed. He slept eventually. His last sight through the door ajar was the motionless fulgar lost in her unfathomable recollections before the dying embers in the hearth. The new-morning world was sunk in fog. The lenterman was cautious and they left Compostor at a measured crawl. Threnody's wind had improved little since yesternight and she dozed and stared out the opposite window and said naught.

There was little to see from the window but fathomless gray until the lentum slowly crested a hill and drew clear of the obscuring shroud. Rossamund was graced with a view that until now he never knew possible: all about was a puffy lake of cloud, glowing a russet golden-white in the climbing light, lapping at the contours of spur and gully as an ocean touches the sandy shore. Other hilltops poked through and made dark islands in this stark fog sea. On one pinnacle about a mile distant, Rossamund thought for a moment he spied movement. He looked closer and saw a large, longlimbed something gamboling in the clear, cold dawn looking for all the world to be hooting at the glaring day-orb. It must have been very tall indeed to be visible from so far, but as he went to call his fellow travelers' attention to it, the carriage descended into the murk and the unsettling sight was obliterated.

"Such things are common here," Europe said in answer to his hurried, hollered description. "This remains true ditchland, whatever maps might say. Here monsters have free rein and are stopped only by walls and vigilance-and me," she finished, a twinkle in her eye.

The brume persisted for much of the first half of the day, lifting only slightly to hang above as a somber, drizzling blanket. In the haze loomed the Wight, raised where two trunk-roads met with the highway.The fortress-city had grown rich on tolls extracted from grain trains coming down from Sulk and luxury trading caravans going north. Negotiating its streets, Rossamund saw that the military very much intruded on the public: watchtowers in municipal squares, barracks fronting a common park with its soldiers monopolizing the green for their evolutions. Nevertheless, women in tentlike dresses promenaded with parasols and met with men in finest silks. Together these would take their spiced and scented infusions in public places of high fashion and then be carried home in gilt, leather-covered mule-litters.

Insisting on a change of carriage as well as team, Europe took them to a tiny corner shop known as a small-market or kettle. It was a cluttered affair, full of such a disparity of goods that it took Rossamund some time to even orient himself before being able to decide on purchases.With much of his money-almost a full year's worth-still encumbering his wallet, Rossamund first bought a fine black thrice-high with satin-trimmed edges. It squatted rebelliously on his bandage, refusing to sit right, and became so annoying he removed the dressing so that the hat might fit as it should.

"I don't know the nature of the wound you had," declared Threnody, peering at his scalp, "but there is no evidence of it now."

Rossamund also purchased a quarter of a rind of his old favorite-fortified sack cheese; a small jar of preserved apricots; dried fruits; half a cured pork sausage; and boschenbread. This last was just like from home: golden-dark and doughy, with a scrumptious hint of ginger.Verline had made boschenbread every Bookday, enough for every foundling. He carried two pounds of the stuff away in a big brown bag and shared it liberally with a quietly amused Europe, with Threnody-who declared she did not like it and left her piece barely nibbled-and even the bemused lentermen.