D Cornish - The Lamplighter

Though Rossamund knew Europe had gone again, hunting somewhere out on the flat with her hired lurksman, he nevertheless looked out for her in hope, even up to the moment of departure. Before boarding the return post, the young lighter left a desperate scrawl for her with Goodwife Inchabald, a plea for the fulgar to follow after him to Winstermill. It was a lot to ask, but he was about to return to the den of that black habilist Swill, and the Branden Rose was the only one who he felt could protect him anymore.

In somber silence, the post-lentum left for the Idlewild proper, farewelled by only Aubergene, sadly waving, and a silent Poesides. Not sparing of the horses, it hurtled west. What little was left of their belongings Rossamund and Threnody now carried with them in the cabin. All the rest was charred to smithereens in the burning and collapse of his old billet-including, to Rossamund's great woe, his peregrinat and the remarkable valise given him by Madam Opera.

Out of exhaustion and an unbearable gloominess at his enforced retreat to the manse, Rossamund slept much of the journey. The return became a bizarre blur of unhappy, cataclysmic dreams; hurrying landscape glimpsed from the thin slot allowed between sash and door frame; strange, anxious faces at whatever stop they made; and tasteless meals he had no appetite to stomach. Threnody too sat in silent grieving, seemingly diminished without her fine furs and traveling bags.

Rossamund lost the reckoning of time. All seemed dark to him, whether day or night; he could have well done with House-Major Grystle's hack-watch now. Consequently he was unable to share in the wonder of their escort, who stated that they had achieved Winstermill in a record four days-rather than six-and "that done at the end of the bad traveling season and all!" Four days, six days, ten days, twelve-this was no relief to the young lighter. He had once gloried that he had escaped the oppressive, now-corrupted place, yet here he was, returning to the manse after only two and a half short, violently terminated months.

Now he feared he might never be allowed to leave this den of massacars again.

Their arrival at Winstermill went unheralded, and from the coach yard they were met by Under-Clerk Fleugh and hurried directly through the manse to wait with their escort in the Marshal-Subrogat's anteroom.

"No happy welcomes for us, I see," Threnody muttered as they were let through to the Ad Lineam, the hall-like gallery of tall, many-mullioned windows that took them to the Master-of-Clerks' file, their feet slapping thump thump thump as they were hastened along.

As if there was some kind of criminal inconsistency to be found in their accounts, Podious Whympre saw fit to meet with each of them separately. The Bleakhall escort was interviewed first; this was a long meeting that gave the two young lighters time to catch a breath as they sat under the impassive gaze of a foot-guard.

"What do you think will happen?" Threnody wondered quietly.

"I don't know."

"What more can Odious Podious want to know?" she persisted.

"I don't care."

"Hmph." Threnody folded her arms and leaned back as best she might in the high-backed chair.

Their escort reemerged looking harassed and disappointed.

Threnody was called for next.

"Do well," Rossamund offered. The encouragement sounded weak in his own ears.

"And you," she returned with a dazzling smile, and disappeared through the portentous door.

Finally, as the sun westered, shedding gold on the west-facing angles of the mess-hall window frames, Rossamund was shocked from his doze by a summons. His time with the clerk-master at last. As he was let through to Podious Whympre's file, he could hear the tail of the previous interview.

"In such startling and tragic circumstances," came the Master-of-Clerks' smooth voice, "I have taken the liberty of sending for your mother."

"I do not want her here!" Threnody objected.

"But she is here already," Whympre returned evenly. "I shall have my man take you to her immediately. Ah, Master Bookchild, our little teratologist! It would appear you have an unfortunate aptitude for being right in the thick of troubles." The Master-of-Clerks glowered at him almost as soon as Rossamund entered the narrow, unfriendly room. "Thank you, Lady Threnody. That will be all."

The girl pivoted on her heel, her nose in the air.They exchanged a quick look,Threnody rolling her eyes and exiting without another word.

Rossamund stepped into the Master-of-Clerks' file and stood at the far end of the great table that ran most of the length of the room.The first thing he noticed was the enormous antler-trophy of the Herdebog Trought, thrusting out into the upper atmosphere of the room. The trophy was hanging from the wall as if it had been Podious Whympre himself who had bagged the beast. Rossamund gave a brief scowl of disgust. The musk of the horns cloyed the air in here, joining the sweet fragrance of that old wood and the sharp bouquet of the unguents in the Master-of-Clerks' wig. Rossamund hated this narrow unfriendly room, wallpapered in a fussy pattern of velvet and gold, with its too-high ceilings of dainty white moldings, too-tall windows looking out to the treacherous fens north of the manse. Its morbid silence hummed with distracting, lurking echoes. In the far-end wall, underneath an enormous painting of some ancient Imperial victory, were three doors. Remembrance made his gizzards tight as Rossamund wondered which it was he had burst through on the night he slew the rever-man.

The Master-of-Clerks sat tall and stiff, aloof in a great gilt chair at the farther end of the ostentatiously carved table. Dressed in the brilliant scarlet of the Empire, he had removed his thick black wig of long complex locks-an inconvenience when shuffling sheaves of paper. It was also a subtle reminder that neither Rossamund-nor Threnody, nor their escort for that matter-were important enough to warrant the trouble of being fully dressed.

To the left of the clerk-master, seated on a markedly smaller stool of drab wicker, was Witherscrawl, with stylus in hand and giant book on lap.The indexer scowled through his glasses at Rossamund, who could feel those beady eyes and ignored them. Laudibus Pile was there too, of course, sitting just behind his master, leaning forward, ready to expose false speech. Rossamund refused to be daunted-he had nothing to hide.

"Please sit, Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild," the Master-of-Clerks purred.

There was not much new about the interview itself. The same kinds of questions were asked as had been asked by the house-major of Bleakhall: the why, the where, the how-and Rossamund's answers were the same. Whympre kept pressing for more detail on just how the young, prematurely promoted lighter had fought and beaten his foes. Rossamund was troubled by the inkling that there was more to the queries than simple, official inquisitiveness. Nevertheless he answered every question truthfully.

"All this loss of life is very alarming and vexing." The Master-of-Clerks stroked his face and looked anything but alarmed or vexed. Indeed, he seemed more troubled by the destruction of property. The most significant thing he had to tell was that there was to be a formal inquiry of the Officers of the Board into the affair, "to be held here, hence the brevity of this evening's fact-finder. A disaster of such magnitude requires proper bureaucratic process." The man smiled coldly. "Also, I wish to investigate some… irregularities. The people of the Idlewild, and the Sulk End too, need to see that their Marshal-Subrogat is not a slouch at the important end of the day-ad captandum vulgus and all that, you understand."

Actually Rossamund did not understand. What irregularities? The events were straightforward.

"I shall allow you a day to gather yourselves, after which we will begin, first thing on the first day of the new week. Understood?"