D Cornish - The Lamplighter

As the lentum drew closer, Rossamund could see that every structure was three or four or five stories tall, raised close together and with no gate nor surrounding wall to protect them. How is that possible! It was only as they entered the town and crept between these towers that he realized none of the buildings had ground-level doors opening out to the dangerous world. The higher stories were accessed from the ground only via retractable iron ladders, and an arrangement of covered walks-the lynches-stretched the short gaps between structures, their weight carried on sturdy arches.

The hard-packed dirt of the Wormway went right through the middle of the town, leading them to a small wayhouse called the Fend amp; Fodicar, its sign a fodicar and a spittende crossed. Upon the other hand was a large oblong fort of four levels and, like every other building here, a flattened gable roof of red tiles. This was Bleakhall, the lamplighters' bastion and the only structure to be surrounded by a wall, which protected a coach yard and steep stairs to a third-story door. With the yell of its horn the post-lentum was let through gates as thick and tall as the bronze portals of Winstermill and rattled slowly into the tight area within, brightly lit by slow-burning flares lifted up on lampposts. A quarto of heavy-harnessed haubardiers met the carriage and humbly did the tasks of yardsmen: helping the lentermen take the horse-team in hand, organizing the setting down of the luggage. The postilion opened the doors of the lentum and lowered the folding-step, handing the women out of the cabin. The haubardiers were puzzled by a calendar in lighter's vestments and they were downright astounded by the dangerous graces of the fulgarine peeress. Europe played the part with practiced ease, feigning ignorance at their awe with a studied grandness. Threnody met them with her typical superciliously lifted chin. Rossamund just helped to carry the bags.

The three were shown up the steps through a door of solid black iron, the postilion following after with a mailbag. Beyond was an antechamber slit with murder holes in roof and wall. A cheerful "halloo" from their haubardier guide, and a second black door at the farther end was winched open. Europe, Rossamund and Threnody were admitted to a watch room furnished sparely with a clerical desk, a large clock and other doors to left and right.

They were met by a young man in a powdered scratch-bob, standing behind the desk. He was wearing the unmistakable white oversleeves of an altern-lighter and the same surprised expression as all the other officers of previous cothouses at the sight of newly made, newly arrived lighters. Stuttering a little at Europe's steady scrutiny, he greeted them all stiffly. As he sorted through the few items in the mailbag, he informed them that their Major-of-House and Lamplighter-Captain were away at Haltmire for an urgent conference with the Warden-General. "How-be-it, young lampsmen.You have come to reinforce us?"

"No, sir, we're meant for Wormstool," Rossamund explained.

"Wormstool, is it?" The altern looked a little put out. "Well, they need it more, I suppose, though we are all sorely put. You can journey there with the lantern-watch tomorrow morn. I'll have the costerman take your dunnage across later in the day."

"I'll set owt termorrer," the costerman drawled with a thick Sulk End accent, entering at the altern-lighter's summons. Squarmis was the man's name. He was a withered, greasy fellow in many heavy layers of cheap proofing and a short-tailed liripipium.There was something indefinably odd about the man, something vague and unsettling. For a dread instant, Rossamund swore he caught a hint of swine's lard on the fellow.When he thought no one was paying him any mind he sniffed more deeply, but only got a nose full of the man's natural unwashed odors and the waft of strong drink.

Squarmis looked at them shrewdly. "A jink for yer goods in the cart will cost ye one an' six."

Even Rossamund could tell one sequin, six guise was thievery for such a short ride. It was more than the young lighter was paid for a month of prenticing.

"You must be jesting," said Threnody, incredulous. "How can you practice such domestic brigandry?"

"We all have owr burthens, miss," Squarmis said with an unctuous smile and fingers greedily gripping for the fare. "Does ye wants yer parcels delivered safe across this nasty world or does ye not?" The avaricious fellow was so brazen he was not daunted even by the presence of Europe.

"This is your best service, Lieutenant?" the fulgar queried the young altern-lighter, talking as if the costerman were not there.

Blushing slightly, he bowed a little. "My apologies, ma'am, th-this scoundrel is all there is to offer. He has been g-given sole commission to work here by the Master-of-Clerks' office, so we have little choice."

"Very well."

Before the costerman slunk away the altern passed him a red-leather wrapped dispatch, an official document normally sent only by the Marshal-in this case the Marshal-Subrogat, Podious Whympre. "This has arrived for you," the young officer said.

What does Podious want with him so far out here?

Squarmis took the dispatch between smudgy fingers. "Thems will be my orders from yer surpeereeors." He leered knowingly and wandered back through the side door from which he had come.

Blushing, the altern-lighter apologized once again then asked of Rossamund and Threnody, "How would you like to meet your new comrades?"

"I think a time of rest for us all at your wayhouse would do better," Europe cut in quickly. "Camaraderie can come later."

"Ah-right you are, madam." With an open palm, he gestured them to follow. He took them through a door and down a passage over the high lynche that connected cothouse to wayhouse. Though it was covered with its own tiled roof, the sides were open to the winds, and an eerie inhuman ululation carried faintly from the flatlands. Somewhere inside the bastion the muffled yammering of the cothouse dogs and the answering shouts of their tractors could be heard. The altern seemed hardly to notice as he guided them.

The Fend amp; Fodicar's enrica d'ama, Goodwife Inchabald, greeted them all familiarly. "Oh 'ello, my darlings! Come for a taste of me hasty pie, 'ave you?"

"Her fare is as poor as her welcome is warm," Threnody murmured into her plate when their meals were served.

"Miss Europe, what of this rever-man you have to dispatch?" Rossamund asked.

The fulgar took a sip of beer and betrayed only the slightest distaste. "There are people who dare to actually live out there on the flat," she said, "and out there is where I am to go. Some puzzled eeker-folk with more sequins than sense, it seems, have a rever-man in residence in their cellar. My intermediary is a fellow here by the name of Dimbleby: I am to find him tomorrow. More than that I do not know."

"What is it doing out here?"

"The rever-man? Who can say?" Europe sighed wearily. "It might have escaped from a strong room in the mines up north."

"Maybe it is one of Swill's," Threnody added.

"It could have come from a rousing-pit," Rossamund put in. "There is probably one out here too."

"It might have." The fulgar was starting to sound a little exasperated. "Out in this rustic remoteness anything might be."

"Will you be taking help?" Joining her on the hunt for a gudgeon was factotum work Rossamund would be happy to do.

Europe let out a puff of air and reviewed the room and its few hard-bitten patrons. "In the morning I will attempt to find myself a lurksman among these frowsty folk. If it weren't for your oaths of service I would take you too."

"Why are you so insistent on Rossamund as your factotum?" Threnody demanded.

The fulgar looked at Threnody as if seeing her for the very first time. "Child, do not mistake my tolerance of you for acceptance."