The Foundling's Tale: Factotum Part 31

"What, Doctor?"

"If they have it right, then surely it can only mean that in your members dwell the secrets to perpetual life!"

"Perpetual life?" Rossamund almost did not want to know the answer-though in truth, he guessed at it well enough. The Lapinduce had said something of living on while the current generation pa.s.sed.

"Perpetual life! Perpetuity, continual existence, vita semper, to live on and on unaffected by time or aging . . .This is a subject the dark trades find powerfully fascinating. Should more ma.s.sacars and fabercadaverists discover your proper tribe, my boy, I do not think there will be any obstacle that would detain such determinedly contrary from trying to get at you."

"Such as ambus.h.i.+ng us on some faraway road," Rossamund returned grimly.

"Such as that, yes . . ." Crispus took off his brown-gla.s.s spectacles and wiped them with a brightly striped handkerchief, observing the young factotum from the corner of his eye. "If you do not mind my saying it, that despite all this you are a most remarkably favored fellow, Rossamund, to be able to go on observing the course of history with your own eyes long after all today's scholars and matterns are slotted feet-first into the ground."

"And watch my friends and everyone I care for leave this world while I go on and on . . ."

"Ah . . . yes." The physician's crest fell. "There is that . . . The price of perpetuity . . . Something perhaps the ma.s.sacars have not considered." He cleared his throat pointedly. "Stimulating as talking with you inevitably is, I must prepare further for my oratory . . . I shall see you at middens, perhaps." He bid Rossamund good morning and went inside.

Left to continue his const.i.tutional alone, Rossamund found his attention caught by furtive motion at the gate. Sneaking between the very bars, a rabbit slipped into the yard to briskly hide itself among the roots and trunks of the glory vines along the wall. Its fur dagged and dirty gray, the creature was made for creeping unremarked along dull city slate and stone.

As Rossamund watched, another mangy coney pa.s.sed nonchalantly across the mouth of the gate, disappearing farther up the Harrow Road.

Darter Brown hopped across the gravel to the glory vine to twitter at the first rabbit.

One ear tall and alert, nose twitching attentively, the rabbit-spy remained in its place, even when the young factotum sidled over to finally stand before it and cautiously look it in the eyes. One orb was glittering black, but the other was a filmy, sightless blue; the ear above it drooped unmoving down its neck-this creature had lived hard in this pugnacious city.

On a peculiar flash of intuition Rossamund gave it the merest nictation. Speaking low, almost under his breath, he addressed it. "Hail, servant of the ancient and rightful duke of Brandenbra.s.s.You would do me great service if you should keep watch of my mistress wherever she might go in this city." He was no monster-lord, but it was worthy of a try.

The rabbit, however, did not move but simply peered at him, nose a-twitch twitch.

Rossamund gave a sad shrug and turned away. Yet, returning to the house, he chanced to see the little watcher wriggle back out through the bars of the gate and disappear down the Harrow Road with all the purpose of a scopp.

Taking an audition in the hiatus of an armoniam player hoping to sweeten the mordant tattle of the glossary, Europe received the latest report of Swill and the Master-of-Clerks with typical composure.

"Choked upon their own rope at last" was all she said, a slight I-told-you-so look pa.s.sing across her face.

Lost in the bliss of his art, the armoniam player played on.

s.h.i.+vering, Rossamund clenched his teeth against the high notes. He wanted to say something to her-sorry for the tussle of words two nights gone, for the bad feeling it had brought between them.Yet he did not see that his was the fault, and fixing on this thought, said nothing.

"THANK YOU, SIR!" Europe called over the barely melodic shriek, interrupting the slightly put-out musical gent in the very midst of his transports. "That shall make a perfect accompaniment, thank you," she said, and bid the self-important fellow good day.

Even as the man left, the Baron Finance was shown into them, his rouged cheeks more rosy than usual with a natural glow of exertion. The Chief Emissary smiled warmly and gave Rossamund a brief, curiously knowing look as he bowed low in greeting.

"Gracious d.u.c.h.ess-daughter! I was hearing such rumors of your misfortune.You went out to knave fully provisioned in your best fit, yet returned-to the great dismay of Pater Maupin and his a.s.sociates-much lighter in luggage, by a red-doored canty-coach. Yet here you are now planning a great celebration. You have us all more perplexed, m'lady, than the swapping of springtime months!"

"Truly, Mister Finance?" the fulgar chided mildly, her face a placid blank. "I would have thought you'd have plumbed such mysteries already."

The Chief Emissary dipped his head. "I have found it is far simpler to ask directly where one can, gracious lady . . ." He waited expectantly.

Europe took her time to answer. "Master Maupin and his surgeon pet set a nice trap for us to spring on the Holt Street in the eastern Brandenfells," she said matter-of-factly. "By the attendance of the Seven-Seven sept and a base-born sciomane with her pack of jackstraws, I would say that he did not intend me to survive."

Finance allowed frank indignation to play across his handsome features. "And you know it was purposely set by Maupin, m'lady?"

"Surely with your long experience, Mister Emissary, you ought to have learned that an astrapecrith's full arts are subtler than just blasting life and limb. We, sir, are the great undiscovered fals.e.m.e.n!"

"Indeed" was all the Chief Emissary said at first, then added cautiously, "One might hold that after such an affront you might have chosen to return with more furtive care."

"I do not do furtive, sir," Europe instantly corrected him. "You of all souls ought know this."

LESQUIN CAPTAIN AND COLONEL.

The Baron inclined his fastidiously powdered head in capitulation.

"Hiding my return, dear Finance, is not possible," she continued. "Hiding my intent now that I am here, however, is."

The Baron smiled. "As is penetrating Maupin's own schemes," he returned.

Europe looked at him steadily, Go on writ clear in her expression.

Finance obliged her. "After his clandestine a.s.sault on this house, Pater must have mistaken your prompt departure from Brandenbra.s.s for knaving as weakness."

"Silly fellow," Europe put in.

"As you have figured it yourself, gracious heir, Maupin gained the interest and the backing of a dark commerce princ.i.p.al and a ma.s.sacars' league. He holds this interest still, despite Swill's ruin at the fall of the fortalice out Sulk End way and with it the removal of ducal approval. Now that you are returned to us, Maupin has grown rather anxious to fortify his dens and is hiring as many st.u.r.dies and mercenary fellows as will place themselves under his banner. And with all this, he remains determined to have at Mister Bookchild here, blinking so perplexedly beside me."

Rossamund schooled his lids to a facsimile of unruffled stillness.

"Pater has run himself out so far on the credit of the Archduke's favor in his desire to get at me," Europe posited, "I would think he had scant option but to burrow himself in so deep. Especially now that he knows his attempt at my elimination failed."

"If I may, gracious daughter . . ." The Baron Sainte smiled as he went on. "Whatever you intend, Maupin is nicely perplexed at your gala."

The fulgar gave a cryptic smile. "Nothing like a festivity to lift the common spirits distressed at distant Winstermill's fall," she said.

"Of course . . ." The Baron Finance's expression took on the dogged cast of someone fully expecting that which he did not at all desire. "To that end I can offer you intelligence of perhaps a deeper and better sort than your Mister Rakestraw has garnered. Though I am certain Mister Rakestraw's scarlets are competent enough, you ought to take the services of one or even two of my percusors. Messrs. Slitt and Camillo are most excellent for the purpose."

Percusors! They always made it into pamphlets as the worst of all scoundrels: murderers for sport, money and state.

"What might your d.u.c.h.ess say of such a common use of her political apparatus?" Europe inquired, arching a brow.

"I have always had the understanding, gracious lady, that your most excellent mother approves of whichever course I choose to travel, to maintain or increase the prospects of our sovereign state." He leaned forward a little. "And if I may, ma'am, I myself most heartily wish to see you preserved in so fraught an adventure."

"Fraught, is it?" A wry grimace flickered at the edges of the fulgar's mouth.

Finance tapped his nose again. "Your graciousness knows full well that to vie with the dark trades or one that they patronize is to clutch at great girth with small hands."

"And you know well, oh Baron, that my hands are thew enough to grasp anything onto which they lay themselves. There shall be no safety for me or mine unless I put out the eyes of this froward gentleman. Your intelligence I gratefully receive, but yet again I must decline the use of your staff."

Finance conceded with an elegant nod.

After the perplexing agent departed with many gracious words, Europe added to Rossamund, "He will help regardless of my wish."

Rossamund nodded. Help in what?

Three days before the gala, with Rossamund deep in ever-quickening preparations, Mister Oberon performed an examination of his mistress. At its conclusion he sought Rossamund out and advised him to make emunic reborate, a treacle found in Europe's expurgatory and good for fulgars given to overexerting themselves in the stouche.

"Unlike plaudamentum, it keeps for a small while," the transmogrifer explained, "and is to be drunk a few hours before a fight. Please make sufficient doses to be taken over the next four days."

And with that Oberon left.

In the afternoon, with the sky remaining blue and unrepentantly clear, Mister Brugel the armouriere presented to Europe a most exquisite set of proofing. It was, he a.s.sured her in the most grandiloquent terms, the best protection money could gain while still holding easy movement. With Claudine and Brugel's female a.s.sistant to help with points, frogs and buckles, it took the fulgar more than an hour to fit.

Once all was in place, the Branden Rose immediately went up to the ludion, drawing a line of spectators after her. With dancelike spins and vaults over the glossy dark boards of the broad hall, she tested the freedom of the harness. Watching on in bliss, Brugel sat with his a.s.sistant on a row of leather campaign stools beside the large fireplace of green stone at the far end of the ludion as the Branden Rose proved the suppleness and robustness of his creation. In joy he would frequently spring from his seat and hurry over to the fulgar to point out the virtues of his design or clap and cry compliments to the lady's grace.

"Brava! M'lady! Brava!You are a jewel amid jewels! How well you set off my cuts!"

Over the usual layers of white petticoats was a black soe coat of flaring frock and high fan-shaped collar that protected the nape and base of Europe's head. Bound in at the elbow and forearm by st.u.r.dy vambrins of stiffened black soe, its sleeves were loose and puffed. Unusually, they were made of a different cloth: a glossy delicate gra.s.s green that s.h.i.+fted hues as it moved to a warm pale yellow, and patterned with daisylike flowers of fiery red. Over the hem of the coat was fitted a second skirt split into four panels: the sides and back were black, finished in a band of cloth-of-silver with silver brocade; its front panel was an ap.r.o.n of the same patterned mercurial material as the sleeves. This was held to Europe's body by a broad sash of glossy black wrapped about her whole torso, binding her chest firmly, fastened at the back with frogging and finished in a large bow. Atop this she finally donned what Brugel called an eighth, a short pollern-coat of buff that barely covered her bosom, fastening down the left and under her arm, its collar and frogging brocaded in deep red.

Eyes alive with a joy Rossamund rarely saw, the fulgar watched herself-or rather, the new harness-in the long mirrors, bending and flexing, stretching seams as far as she could, extending cloth as far as it might, seeking small adjustments. Standing with Claudine and Kitchen by the tall windows, Rossamund watched his mistress' dance with breath held.

When she was finished, it was to a small clatter of wondering applause.

"This will do nicely as my new Number 3, Mister Brugel," she said matter-of-factly, a patina glowing on her wan brow. "You have excelled as always."

The armouriere beamed.

With that she departed the ludion to change into more domestic attire.

In the gray hours Rossamund felt himself shaken awake.

"Mister Rossamund, sir." It was Pallette, anxious, fretting at Rossamund's hand.

"Miss Europe is in trouble?" he asked, rubbing at the blear clouding his senses, squinting into the steadily brightening bright-limn the alice-'bout-house gripped so shakily.

"No, sir, no! She is well," she returned, puzzled. "It's Mister Vinegar-that is to say, Master Fransitart, sir-"

"What about Master Fransitart?" Rossamund sat up quickly, suspicions coming home to roost.

"Nectarius here says he let him out after we had all turned in last night, opened the gate again under promise that Master Fransitart be back by now, but he has not shown as agreed!"

Standing at the foot of the stairs in the vestibule hall, the nightlocksman, bearing his own bright-limn and looking sheepish with battered tricorn wrung in fist, told the same story.

"Did he say where he was going?" Rossamund demanded.

"Na-"

"He's in here, me hearties!" came Fransitart's own faltering voice, trying to sound strong as he called from the hiatus. There they found him, old and wan, grotesquely lit by the swinging limnulight. Head lolling, eyes red-rimmed and watery, the ex-dormitory master peered up at him groggily. Instead of a broken limb there was no limb at all, just a neatly capelined stump just below the shoulder.

"Master Frans!" Rossamund cried.

"He must've just turned in," Nectarius grumbled querulously, "while I was gettin' Miss Pallette 'ere."

"Pallette, get Crispus!" the young factotum ordered. "Nectarius, hold the doors for me!" Careless of the spectacle, the young factotum lifted the old vinegaroon from his couch and carried him bodily from the hiatus to his room, ignoring Fransitart's grizzling complaints that he could walk on his own!

The nightlocksman was so stunned at this small show of Rossamund's strength that he forgot to prop open the servants' port.

"The door, Nectarius!" Rossamund barked, not caring about the puzzled and uneasy looks the nightlocksman gave him as he struggled by and on to Fransitart's cot.

"Blood and bruises, man! Are you always the source of such dramas?" Crispus demanded of the old dormitory master as, clad in dressing gown, his hair a feral spray of white, the physician hurried into the pallet. "Where is your arm at now, sir!" All mildness gone, he rebuked Fransitart with a martial rigor Rossamund had seen him use only against the Master-of-Clerks. "The erreption of a limb is no simple occasion; implements must be thoroughly thatigated, vital vessels duly cautered! What backlot shambleman did this favor for you?"

Plainly addled by some kind of soporating spirit, Fransitart ducked his head and muttered a sullen obscenity.

"It'd be Master Meech," Craumpalin interjected in a guiltily quiet voice, struggling with crutches to rise from his own cot.

"And pray who is he?" the physician demanded hotly.

"He served as a loblolly on the Venerable with us, got a dischargement back in seventy-one on account of his sick mother and his game leg; settled in this here city on Change Lane to take up taxidermy."

"A taxidermist!" Crispus almost spat the word.

"Always loved stuffin' his animals." Fransitart chuckled woozily. "Had a whole cabin squashed with 'em by the end, an' 'is shop is to the top with 'em . . . I reckon he must give service to a great lot of folks, 'cause 'e 'as some right sharp bone knives handy . . ."

"Master Frans!" Rossamund added some chiding of his own.

With a snort of reproach, Crispus bent to examine the stump closely. "Well, you can thank the course of the Lots and the will of Providence too that this Meech fellow seems to be handy with his business.You fellows!" he commanded Nectarius and Wenzel, standing as humbly as they could by the door as Kitchen appeared yawning. "Fetch me extra pillows. Mister Craumpalin! Master Bookchild! I am sure you know the script for birchet and vauqueline-"

"Aye, that we do . . ."

"Then go and test them. Let us hope this Meech is as good as the knot and fit of his bandaging suggest!"

At this, the young factotum and the old dispenser meekly obeyed, brewing as fast as sensitive processes of chemistry and Craumpalin's crutch-slow gait would allow. In his haste, Rossamund left the old dispenser to come at his own pace from the saumery and hurried ahead with the vauqueline to find Europe just arrived at the old salts' humble quarters. She looked unruffled at such an unseemly hour yet was clearly unhappy at the fuss.

"Well betide you, madam." The physician greeted Europe in his stiffest physicking manner. "Our friend is as well as can be expected, though perhaps feeling a little foolish . . ."

Despite the meek slump in his shoulders, an obstinate gleam in the vinegaroon's eye spoke most eloquently that he was yet determined in the set of his course.

The fulgar took in the entire scene in an inkling. "The break not enough for you, Master Vinegar?" she asked coolly.

"Why did you do it, Master Frans?" Rossamund breathed.

The ex-dormitory master regarded his onetime charge somberly, eyes full of a thousand thoughts.

Folding her arms, Europe leaned against the doorjamb. "Indeed, Master Vinegar!" she said huskily. "Simply removing the offending patch of flesh would have sufficed, sir. What use are you to me with one limb?"

Grumbling incoherently, Fransitart became genuinely sheepish. "Vinegars get their wings off for bone breaks all th' time and still go on a-servin' . . ." was about all that Rossamund could make out, and maybe, "Ye need not fear-I'll not be a make-weight to ye."

Realizing the moment, Crispus excused himself quietly, softly calling Pallette out with him.

There was a b.u.mp at the door and Craumpalin b.u.mbled back into the room, toiling in on his crutch, his brow glistening with sweat as he bore a pot of foul-smelling birchet. "Here, thee daft basket!" he gruffed. "Drink and get healing." He nodded to the bandaged stump. "So it's gone at last. Are thee any happier?"

"Ye know full well, Pin, I took th' mark back at that fortress 'cause o' the two of us, I can afford to lose a wing easiest," Fransitart gruffed in return. Rubbing his eyes irritably, he drank the foul-smelling draught.