D Cornish - The Lamplighter

Rossamund nodded. "She saved us both," he said softly. "But it was not enough to help the-the others."

"No." Aubergene dropped his gaze. "No, I s'pose it — weren't." Two days later, the remains of their comrades were recovered, brought back to Bleakhall and buried. Even the nonlighter folk of Bleak Lynche attended. Rossamund had never attended an obsequy before; any foundling who died was buried privately, just for Madam Opera and the masters to see. Here, in the deepest cellars of Bleakhall, with the lighters gathered about, their heads and his own covered over with black mourncloths, he was privy to the whole somber process.

With every burial came the ritual intonation: "A light to your path. A way in the dark."

Rossamund was surprised, even in his sorrow, by the smallness of the tombs and the thoroughness with which they were sealed with plugs of clay once the corpse was interred. There was something bitterly oppressive about this hurried, repetitious rite, the lives of the passing grieved as a waste, their honor grimly asserted by House-Major Fortunatus and attested to by silent, angry nods from the lighters. "Lampsman 2nd Class Fadus Theudas," the senior officer said, "true of heart and quick of shot, who sought to serve, so young and so well."

"A light to your path. A way in the dark."

Blinking back tears, Rossamund looked furtively to Threnody, standing across from him at the memorial, and marveled that she and he had survived a theroscade together. The girl looked haunted as they slid the remains into small tombs deep below, glancing reluctantly at him with dark, imploring eyes.

"A light to your path…"

She was to be puncted that night. He had no desire to see her marked, for to do that would be to relive the horror and violence-and he simply could not. Providentially-when the time came that evening-he was not made to attend. After the burial day the young survivors were given light duties about Bleakhall, small tasks to keep them from dangerous brooding.

Any unoccupied time Rossamund and Threnody had they spent sitting together and talking in the room given to him in the wayhouse.

"Rossamund"-the girl lighter looked at him with sad earnestness, fingering the bandage that covered her still-forming puncting-"how did you slay those monsters?"

"You were there, Threnody! I just did-I hit them and they died. Isn't that the way it is meant to happen?"

"Yes… but Sp-Splinteazle was not able to even bruise one and he is-was thrice your size."

"Sequecious skewered at least one," Rossamund tried. "Probably more!"

"A huge man using a blade coated in aspis. Did your crook have a venificant on it?"

"No." He had no other answer for this but the one he had already given the house-major.

Threnody squinted at him. "You catch heavy barrels and slay monsters with one blow."

Rossamund had nothing to say to this.

A welcome silence stretched out.

"Will you go back to Herbroulesse now?" he asked eventually.

"And let Mother win?" Threnody scowled. "Never. I am a lighter now, like you, and we shall serve on just as we ought. Once a lighter, always a lighter-isn't that what they say?"

"Aye… Maybe." Rossamund could not conceive of what his future might be now. What little enthusiasm for lighting he had managed to find had been slaughtered out at Wormstool. Between the violent malice of monsters and the ruthless ambition of men, where was he to go? A week after the attack they were talking quietly about unimportant things when Europe entered Rossamund's room, unannounced and without a knock. She had only now returned, and looked haggard beneath her fine clothes and manners.

There was an uncomfortable hesitation.

With a resigned sigh, Threnody stood, bowed stiffly to the fulgar and left the room.

The lighter and the fulgar peered at each other, Europe's expression impenetrable.

Strange feelings boiled within Rossamund's bosom, but most of all, with her there he felt truly safe. Without thinking, he leaped from the bed where he had been sitting and flung his arms about the fulgar.

Startled, she relented for a moment, hands placed lightly on his shoulders, but Rossamund could feel her gathering discomfort and, shamefaced and awkward, he let her go.

"I–I am glad you are safe," he stammered, feeling small and stupid. He sat back on the cot.

Europe nodded. "I know how funny you can get about a monster's dying," she continued circumspectly, "so you may or may not be glad to hear that I have found and slain every hob-thrush, botcher or gnasher I could."

She was right: Rossamund did not feel any better for the news.

"That old eeker-woman, Mother Lieger, even helped me-if you can credit that." Europe pulled a wry face. "I must give part of my success to her guidance: she knew very well where the baskets might be hiding at-and a girl will never refuse aid however it might come. Here is me all along believing these foolish eeker-folk were in love with the nickers. Indeed, she even asked me to send you her greetings, and tell you that she declares it a 'terrible wicked thing to have happened.' " She sighed a deep, heartfelt sigh. "Now the folk of Bleak Lynche want to fete me, and the house-major wants to cite my deeds for some kind of Imperial commendation… I refused them both, of course."

Rossamund nodded sadly. "They wanted to give me a mark, but I refused them too."

Europe let out a small laugh. "Of course you did." She sat on the edge of the bed. "By-the-by, I saw your glamgorn friend. It was loitering out there near the edges of the town and keeping downwind of the dogs."

"You didn't do anything to him, did you?" Rossamund sat up sharply.

"I cannot quite believe I am saying this but, no, I let the wretched thing be. I had little choice, actually." She folded her hands in her lap. "Once it knew I was about, it left rather smartly."

Rossamund lay back. "I feel so tired, Miss Europe. I don't know why, but I cannot seem to raise much eagerness for anything."

"I can tell you why, Rossamund." Europe looked at him appraisingly. "You have stood victorious in a desperate stouche. Dark moods always follow. Your potential as a factotum increases almost every time I see you. Dear Licurius, in all his might, may well have struggled where you have won."

"But all I did was survive!"

"I don't think you comprehend what you have done." Europe leaned toward him. "A wit, even a clumsy, new-cut one, should be able to win through a pack of monsters, else what would be the point of all the pain and inconvenience? But you, an ordinary little man, have not just won through, but-from what I hear-beaten to death three nickers, full-formed and ancient."

Rossamund hung his head. "I was not counting."

"No," the fulgar said, fixing him with serious eye, "but others are." The reply from the Marshal-Subrogat arrived two weeks after that horrid Dirgetide day. It declared tersely that the circumstances of the sacking of Wormstool were too unusual for the limited jurisdiction of the ignoble end of the road. It demanded that Rossamund and Threnody leave immediately on the return post, strangely omitting to summon Under-Sergeant Poesides or Aubergene or Crescens Hugh the lurksman. They had not been witnesses to the fall of the cothouse and were to stay and serve at Bleakhall until further directed from Winstermill. Having stated this in the firmest terms, the dispatch went on to deny any immediate relief to the beleaguered lighters of Bleakhall. The Master-of-Clerks did not see the wisdom in rushing men into the fray when he knew so little of the current situation.

Under the escort of one of the scrutineers who had seen the aftermath, the two young lighters were to be on their way, messengers of the tragedy and bearers of a second urgent request for reinforcement.