D Cornish - The Lamplighter

"Excuse me," Rossamund piped, "the 'sluggards,' sir?"

"Aye, young lighter, the sluggards-the day-watch, as opposed to the dimmers, who are the lantern-watch. You watch while they sleep! What have they been teaching you back thereward-playing at skittles?"

"Ah, no, sir-sorry, sir." Rossamund could almost feel Threnody rolling her eyes beside him.

House-Major Grystle's expression relaxed. "You may take your ease now, Lampsmen 3rd Class, then get to light duties after middens. The cart from Mill to Stool is a long time traveling and I see no benefit from putting tired lighters needlessly to work. Sergeant-Master Hermogenes shall direct you to your final billet. I imagine that oily grub goose Squarmis is bringing your ox trunks and other dunnage?" he concluded with a knowing look.

"Aye, sir," said Rossamund.

"Carry on. Share your first breakfast with us and get your wind back today, for tomorrow-whatever old Grind-yer-bones might have had you doing-your life for the Emperor truly begins. Leave your Work Dockets with me, Lampsmen. Show 'em to their billets, Mister Harlock."

The silver-haired Sergeant-Master took them higher into the tower, up another steep stair, this one of sturdy, immobile stone instead, gradually winding around the entire structure as it rose. From this proximity Rossamund could well see the handsome scar-a cicatrice any warrior would wish to have on display, a visible proof of valor-and more particularly, the man's unusually pale gray eyes, nearly silver-like his hair. "You might-like just now-hear some call me Harlock," he said with a faintly Sedian accent, while they climbed, "on account of my hair. That's a privilege you earn. For you two peepersqueeks it'll just be Sergeant-Master, am I clear?"

"Aye, Sergeant-Master!"

The common-mess where mains was served was found upon this next floor, two levels higher than the front door, the region designated "the kitchens" sharing the octagonal space.The ceiling high above was choke-full with beams and struts and supports of dark, polished wood; as gorgeously complex an array as Rossamund had seen before only at Bleakhall. In here, they were told, everyone ate together, whether lampsman 3rd class or Major-of-House. Other cot-fellows were already beginning to gather, and a muscular, rotund man worked the pots and ovens on the far "kitchen" side. The third floor above the entrance, holding heavy tools and small machines, was for specific labors: tinkering, weapon-smithing, harness-mending, lantern repairs and the like.There was also a coop of chickens-for eggs-with a cock whose dawning crow Rossamund soon learned was far more effective for rousing out the day-watch than any amount of drumming.There were stores kept here high up from the reach of rats and it was obvious now why the ceiling of the common-mess-being also the floor of this level-was so oversupplied with supporting woodwork.

On the top floor they were shown the bunk-rooms, set high and safe from the ground. This level was divided into equal quarters by wooden "bulkheads"-movable walls of about eight feet in height that stopped well short of the beams of the roof above. In the quarter farthest from the stair was where Rossamund and Threnody would be sleeping; sharing the quarter, so the sergeant-master said, with the other younger lighters-both in their early twenties: Aubergene Wellesley, whom of course they had met, and another fellow, Fadus Theudas, currently on house-watch. Rossamund looked at the room that was to be his "home." It was not as bare as the cells of Winstermill but gone was his privacy, his sleeping quarters to be shared again. Here the lampsmen were allowed to decorate their own spot, tack etchings and pamphlet-cuttings onto bed heads; have more than the standard issue of pillows or coverlets; and their own collection of other bed-furniture-stools, chests, side tables and the like. He realized too that though there were eight cots in here, only two were currently occupied.

"How many lighters are here at Wormstool, Sergeant-Master?" he asked.

"Less than there ought to be, Lampsman Bookchild," the cot-warden replied. "Put what dunnage ye have on yer billets and come down to the mess with yer kids or yer pannikins."

"I shall need privacy screens about my cot, then, if you please… Sergeant-Master," Threnody said.

"I shall see what we can arrange for ye, lass," he said, and left the two young lighters to settle.

"No more time to ourselves," Rossamund observed glumly. "At least we are allowed to put pictures up." He could think of several engravings from his pamphlets he might cut out and display, favorites by eminent pens like Pill or Berthezene.

"Hmm." Threnody looked about with mild distaste. "It will suffice, I suppose."

Rossamund wondered if she was beginning to regret her willfully chosen profession and her hasty decision to throw in her lot with him.

Beds selected and bags dropped they returned down to the common-mess. Major-of-House Grystle called for general attention and semiformally introduced them both to their new messmates.The general reaction from the Worm-stoolers was at first one of bemused disappointment. They were of the same opinion as the house-major, and it was manifest on their faces: Why billet lantern-stick novices with us? Send real lighters with long experience and a steady arm in a fight.

Nevertheless, the men proved friendly, and cheerfully ate a fine breakfast of spiced, lard-fried swampland mushrooms known as thrumcops and a strange kind of bacon Rossamund was told was made from rabbit-meat. It was all a remarkable enlargement on "Imperial-issue provender," and Rossamund only regretted he could not stand the smell or taste of these thrumcop mushrooms. Instead he filled his eager belly with coney-rinds and griddle-fried toast.

"This is so much better than breakfast at the manse!" he declared, which drew the universal approval of his new comrades.

"Aye, aye!" Lightbody nodded emphatically, looking very pleased with himself. "No short commons for we Stoolers, lad. The world about proves bountiful for a keen eye, sharp nose and frank aim."

"Ye can thank our round-bellied poisoner fer the fine flavors too," said Sergeant Mulch. "Sequecious is his name, a true culinaire from up Sebastian way." He pointed to the enormously fat man in a red and beige striped apron, grinning and frying behind a large, flat hot plate that divided the "kitchen" from the mess. "He's meant to be some kind of prisoner from them wars Clementine and Sebastian are always in. He was sent here a year ago as a slave of the Emperor, I suppose, but he wants to change his nativity and become a paper nationalist of the Empire, strange fellow-"

"Cain't speak more than 'alf a sentence of Brandenard neither," interjected Posides. "And we're meant to watch over 'im and make sure 'e don't scarper off. Though where 'e's going to go out 'ere I don't know!"

"At least he's fat," argued Lightbody. "Never trust a gutstarver who bain't fat-I've been told, 'cause a thin one don't respect food enough to treat it right."

"What we actually lack is greens," Aubergene chattily added between chews.

"Just so," said a trim-looking man, the cothouse's dispensurist, one Mister Tynche, giving Rossamund a welcoming smile, "and all we lack at times are some consistent, decent antiscorbutics. If it was not for the sovereign lime from Hurdling Migh and the nutrified wine sent ready mixed from Quinault and the Sulk, it'd be all black gums and lethargy here."

"Which is why that wriggler Squarmis can ask so much for his goods and time," Aubergene enlarged. "Sir!" he suddenly called across the trestle to the house-major. "Sir! Did ye hear of the nasty lurker we almost met this dousing?"

"Aye, 'Gene, I surely did," House-Major Grystle replied. "It was a good thing it wandered away like it did, else I might be less five-no, seven! — brave lighters. You can spare the horses, but don't spare the lighters!" he cried, and all the mess joined him, chuckling heartily, someone else calling huskily, "A confusion on the nickers!"