D Cornish - The Lamplighter

"Them daggies never takes to strangers," Lampsman Lightbody chuckled.

From this room the lampsmen gained access to higher floors by a wooden stair at the left of the entrance. From it dangled a sophisticated tangle of cords and blocks, much as could be found on a vessel. Rossamund asked what these were for.

"Ah," answered Lampsman Lightbody eagerly, "these stairs are the genius of the major and Splinteazle our seltzerman-naval men, both of them, with cunning naval minds." He nodded approvingly.

Rossamund's ears pricked at this mention of the Senior Service.

"It's dead-on impressive," Aubergene added. "You see there-that cord, how it leads up through that collet in the ceiling? If ever a nicker or some other flinching hob makes it in here and we need to retreat, we can pull levers up on the next floor connected to that cord and cause this whole construction to topple, leaving the foe stuck down here while we ply fire from on high."

It was indeed "impressive"-as an idea at least. No sooner had Rossamund ascended a few steps than the whole flight wobbled alarmingly, beams groaning, the rope tackle shaking. The lighters did not seem to notice, and climbed happily up to the floor above, while Threnody and he followed one careful step at a time, knuckles whitening on the worn-smooth banister.

Gratefully achieving the top, Rossamund heard Aubergene declaring, "Our reinforcements all the way from Winstermill, sir-ain't it nice to know we're not forgotten?"

Rather than dwelling safely on the very top floor of the tower, as many officer-types might, Wormstool's Major-of-House held office in the very next level; working with his day-clerk on one side and cot-warden on the other, all seated behind the same wide desk of thick, hard wood. It looked solid enough to serve as barricade and fire-position should need arise. Rossamund could well imagine musketeers firing from behind it with their firelocks, shooting at some intruder who had managed to win its way up the rickety stairway.

The house-major was even better turned out than his subordinates-creaseless platoon-coat of brilliant Imperial scarlet and a black quabard so lustrous, with its thread-of-gold owl, it almost gleamed. The man was most certainly of a naval bent, for there were several scantlings of main-rams and cruisers pinned to the angled walls about him and a great covering of black-and-white checkered canvas on the floor, such as Rossamund would expect to find in the day-cabin of a ram. The house-major stood with a fluent, perfectly military motion.

"Miss Threnody of Herbroulesse and Rossamund Bookchild, Lamplighters 3rd Class, come from Winstermill Manse, sir," Rossamund said firmly as he stepped before the immaculate officer.

The house-major fixed them with mildly skeptical amusement. "Well, aren't you a pair of trubb-tailed, lubberly blunderers?" he exclaimed in a trim and educated accent that gave no hint to his origins. "We've not received a brace of lantern-sticks in a prodigious long time, and neither have we received word to be expecting any! The dead of winter means infrequent mail and is an off time to be sending anyone so far-how long have you been prenticing for? I thought lantern-sticks weren't deemed fully cooked till chill's end."

Rossamund and Threnody looked to each other.

Threnody spoke up. "We were told that Billeting Day was done early because the road was in need of new lighters."

"Is that rightly so?" Taking his seat, the house-major stared at her and, more particularly, her spoor. "It is not common to have one of your species make lighter, especially not one that is a tempestine too-are you not a little too new from the crib to be cathared?"

Threnody bristled but controlled her tongue. "Perhaps."

The house-major held her with his steady gaze. "As it stands, we are thankful the Ladies of Columbris have the numbers to spare us one here."

Bemused, Threnody gave half a curtsy.

"As to what you have been told regarding us," the officer continued, "aye, new lighters we do need: a large quarto of doughty, veteran lampsmen to cover our losses, not a brace of new-burped lumps such as yourselves. Is that not so, Sergeant-Master?" he barked to the big, silver-haired cot-warden.

"Aye, sir." The cot-warden smirked. "Though a company of the same would be better."

"I've heard it said that the marshal-lighter is ailing," continued the house-major. "Can he have decreased in his powers so much as to send you here?"

"Oh, it wasn't the Lamplighter-Marshal, sir"-Rossamund wrestled with the desire to cry out in the Marshal's defense-"it was the Master-of-Clerks who sent us."

In one breath the officer's eyes widened, in another they narrowed. "Did he…," he said slowly. "Since when has that lickspittle been sending lighters or directing policy?"

"Since the Lamplighter-Marshal was shipped off to the Considine with a sis edisserum in his hand and 'that lickspittle'-who now calls himself the Marshal-Subrogat-took the run of the manse," Threnody stated tartly.

"Is that so, Lamplighter?" The house-major looked arch. "And I'd rather you addressed me as 'sir' or 'house-major.' "

"Sir," she added after only the briefest hesitation.

The day-clerk, who had been fossicking about in the newly arrived post-bag, passed a telltale red-leather dispatch over to the house-major.

"So the poor old war-dog has been called to account, has he?" the house-major continued. "The bee's buzz has been that he was losing grip of the whole 'Way. In a fight he's your man, but give him pens and paper and he's all a-sea…Well, it's of little use, by either hand," he concluded, picking up the dispatch and opening it almost absently. "Most folk tend to declare this place hic sunt beluae-here be monsters-and forget us altogether." He began to read.

Rossamund shuffled his feet carelessly in the pregnant pause. How could they think the great man "poor" or "old"? However, like it or no, he was not about to set his commanding officer straight on the actual score of things.

"And here our glorious new Marshal-Subrogat confirms your report," the house-major suddenly said, holding up the dispatch, "though I still challenge his wisdom for sending you lantern-sticks out early. This is where only the best and hardiest get billeted. I'd say it's been an awfully long consult-a-ledger period of time since shining-new lampsmen 3rd class were ever billeted to us fresh out of the manse." He rattled the letter. "But here you both are, out to proudly join the hardiest and most soldierly of all the lighters on the 'Way." He fixed both newcomers with appraising scrutiny. "And that means we reckon they must have sent you to us because you're the hardiest and most soldierly of all the lighters too."

Swallowing pointedly, Rossamund hoped he would be. "Aye, sir!" he said.

"Yes… sir," said Threnody.

"Now I know you and your situation"-the house-major stood again-"I am Major-of-House Thyssius Grystle," he said, bowing slightly to Threnody. "Also allow me to name Cot-Warden Hermogenes, or 'Sergeant-Master' to you." The cot-warden was slightly advanced in years with gorgeous silver hair held back in a whipstock and an impressive scar across his forehead. "And Linus Semple, our day-clerk"-a typically short and slender fellow in clerical black, a deep green fronstectum jutting over his brow.

Both men stood and bowed to Threnody with civil niceness.

"Our watches are septenary, changing every Newwich, and none of this slovenly two-watch business either! There are three lantern-watches here, done in lots of two so there's enough men on the road-and even then it's a stretch. So! Wet as your backs might be, two more is still two more. Even though you arrived with the dimmers I'll have you stay with the sluggards till you learn our idiosyncrasies-"