D Cornish - The Lamplighter

"Did ye see that?" he heard drift down from above. "Fifty pound of musket shot and he catched it without a trouble!"

"How'd you do that?" Theudas exclaimed. "That was a full butt of balls! It would have smashed even Sequecious flat!"

Threnody rushed to the side of the dray-truck and looked up at him. "Rossamund! Are you whole?"

"I–I believe so…" was all the young lighter could get out. He tugged at the white solitaire about his throat, seeking better breath.

"That's enough heavy loading for ye, lad," Poesides declared. "Ye can't depend on freakish catches all the time in this job. Take a spell inside. Have Mister Tynche or Splinteazle take a look at ye if ye reckon it necessary. I'll leave ye in the hands of the lass."

Rossamund obeyed, Threnody helping him up each stairway.

"You should have been pounded to pea-mash by that bullet-barrel," she insisted.

"My chest does hurt, if that's more satisfying," Rossamund answered wryly.

"Oh, ha-ha." Threnody did not look amused. "You should hardly make a jest of such a horrid thing. I thought you were done in! Poesides has it right: most certainly a freakish catch."

Talk of his feat buzzed about the cothouse in an instant, and other Stoolers popped their heads out from nooks to send funny looks his way.

Safely deposited on his bunk, Rossamund took off his proofed-silk sash and his quabard to relieve the bruised tenderness in his ribs.

"What is that about your chest?" Threnody asked, crouching by him and looking at the loose collar of his shirt.

Rossamund's innards almost burst open with fright. Oh no, my Exstinker bandage! "It's-it's-it's… it's for putting on nullodor," he tried.

"What, the one that Critchety-crotchety ledgermain fellow made you?" the girl lighter questioned.

Frowning, Rossamund nodded.

"You don't use it, do you?" Threnody snorted.

His frown deepening, he nodded once more.

"When? Even out unloading carts?"

"Aye!" Rossamund hissed in exasperation. "All the time! It was a command of my old masters back at the foundlingery."

"Aren't you the obedient little munkler, then?" Threnody looked narrowly at him. She turned and left him to recover alone. Later in the day, when goods were safely stowed and the dray left, returning to Bleakhall and then home, presumably to Hurdling Migh, Rossamund was called to House-Major Grystle's desk.

"What is this that I have ear of: you snatching falling loads as if they were light parcels?" the house-major queried.

"I couldn't well have let it fall to crash, sir." Rossamund was a little baffled by the fuss made of his fortunate grab.

Grystle gave a baffled blink of his own. "No, I suppose you couldn't have at that." He dusted a fleck off his pristine sleeve. "A powerful fine catch either way, Lampsman. I did not know they raised you so strong in Boschenberg-the lords at the Mill would be well advised to prentice more of your countrymen."

"Aye, sir."

"Maybe we should make you our fellow to challenge those stuffy Limpers to a wrench-of-arms?" The house-major gave a kindly smile.

Rossamund did not really know what his superior was talking about. "Maybe, sir" was all he could think to say.

After a clumsy pause that grew into an uncomfortable silence, Rossamund was dismissed.

Quizzical eyes were on him all that night at mains, the story growing some in its retelling. Aubergene asked him how he was feeling after catching half the load of the dray.

"It was really just one butt, nothing more," Rossamund explained.

"Aye, but I heard it was a very full one."

Rossamund shrugged.

Fortunately the incident quickly receded into the routine. Not more than two days later he was able to enter a room without there being that strange, deliberate silence. It was not completely forgotten, however, for it earned Rossamund a new name: "The Great Harold" they began to call him, or "Master Haroldus," after the hero of the Battle of the Gates. Not even in the face of the awe of the prentices when he killed the gudgeon had Rossamund ever felt so complimented. He had been given a new name-a proper military nickname-and the quiet, hidden joy of it had him smiling himself to sleep for the rest of the week.

"I thought Harold was a skold," was all Threnody said in quibble one breakfast.

"Aye, he was," Aubergene answered her, from across the bench, "but he was a dead-mighty one."

Thankfully, she did not say any more to spoil Rossamund's delight, nor did she venture another word about the barrel or his Exstinker bandage. Proving to have suffered no permanent discomfort from his catching feat, Rossamund was soon employed in his very first excursion away from the cothouse. On the opening day of the second week he was sent with Poesides, Aubergene and Lightbody to carry stores to a poor old eeker-woman-an exile who had fled across the Ichormeer from somewhere east. Rossamund was astounded that lighters would seek to aid one of the under class, a reject of her own society and unwanted in the Empire as well.

"Ah! Master Haroldus has come to lend us his mighty hands!" Poesides said in kindly jest as they readied to leave.

The other lighters smiled warmly in response as Rossamund ducked his head to hide his delight.

The necessary stores-foodstuffs, clothing, repellents, a small quantity of black powder and balls-were lifted onto their backs and they departed,Whelpmoon observing them blearily as they filed out the heavy front door and down the narrow steps. Cold was the morning, its soft breath stinging cheeks, the eastern horizon orange-pink with the sun's rising.

"Where are we going to?" Rossamund asked Aubergene quietly as they crossed the road and stood on its northern verge.

The lighter adjusted his grip on the long-rifle he bore. "There's a small seigh out north near the banks of the Frugal where an old dame lives. Mama Lieger is her name. The bee's buzz is that she likes to talk to the bogles and that's why she lives far out here-fled from Worms to escape accusing tongues."

"Aye, and now we're the sorry sods who 'ave to do 'er deliveries," interjected Lightbody. "I've 'eard it she was some wild strig-woman when she was younger, coming from one of them irritable troupes of wild folk from the Geikelund out back of Worms."

"Didn't the folks where she's from try to hang her?" Rossamund had a vision of a terrible destructress with flashing blades and flying hair having monsters around for supper.

"I reckon she must have got away afore they could." Aubergene smiled.

Rossamund shifted the uncomfortable load and stared a little suspiciously at the uneasy threwd that brooded out beyond the road-edge. "Why doesn't she have Squarmis the costerman do the delivering?"

" 'Cause that filthy salt-horse won't take things to the likes of her," answered Poesides, "and she could ne'er afford him to if ever he did. No, lad, it is our honor to take these supplies to her. She bain't the only eeker to get our help: it's the lighters' way out here, to succor all kinds in need without fault-findin'." He gave an acerbic sideways look at Lightbody.

"But isn't she a sedorner?" Rossamund pressed, feeling a glimmer of hope. "I thought lighters would have said all sedorners were bad folk and done them in somehow."

"A lamp's worth is proved by its color, lad." The under-sergeant gave him a curious look. "Mama Lieger has done good for us, so we do for her benefit as she has done for ours… and maybe-if she does hold conversationals with the local hobs-she might put in a good word for us with them. But just have yer intellectuals about ye, else she'll have ye believing that some monsters are not so bad after all."

"Aye… " Aubergene muttered, "though some might agree with her on that one."

Almost stumbling down the side of the highroad, Rossamund looked in surprise at the lampsman, a dawning of respect rising in his bosom.