The fulgar finally interjected. "Enough, sir!You have been tangled in more than your share. Sit in my hiatus until a carriage is brought."

"This is more than I deserve," Rookwood said, face contorting into an ugly imitation of a humiliated grin.

"Yes," said Europe coolly, "it is . . . ," and she left him to Rossamund's uneasy care.

As their guest settled in the waiting room, rubbing his face with a wet cloth, some warming saloop was brought.

Eager to have a task to punctuate the awkwardness, the young factotum sought upstairs for his stoups and a measure of levenseep to mix with the beverage. "Are you hurt this time?" he asked upon his return, knowing full well what it was like to suffer a fulgar's puissance.

"More in honor than in limb, sad to say," Rookwood replied, ducking his head. "That's twice you've picked me off the ground in as many days, sir-I am in your debt." Shamefaced as he might have appeared, he was sipping saloop heartily enough. "So tell me, Mister Bookchild, did you truly throw stinging powders about the pit?"

"Aye-"

"Wo-ho!"The fancy fellow chuckled, his vigor clearly returning. "And I thought I had pluck . . . I don't know what made you do it, but you caused a genuine uprising, people running and crying out." He peered at Rossamund admiringly. "I tell you, Pitter-patter More-Pins is terribly upset, as he kept telling me. Most of the pit's collection got free. Folks'll have to go to the Pin & Needle now for their pit-side thrills."

With a bemused smile, Rossamund shrugged as if it were all a matter of course, keeping his satisfaction at such news to himself.

Perhaps mistaking this as something less happy, Rookwood lifted a placating hand. "Never fear, my man, we have all done a fool's part in early life. I'll not begrudge you your eccentricities if you'll pardon my part in today's adventure." The fellow beamed at him as if doing him a great favor.

Relieved soon enough of Rookwood's company-the white-haired fellow leaving in good spirits with a promise that they should try such an adventure again presently-Rossamund retreated to the peace of the saumery.

Steps rang on the stairs as Europe entered without a knock.

"I see you have been quick to refurbish," she observed lightly, eyes pa.s.sing over the blanks where the cabinet pictures had once been. They came to rest on a copy of the "Notice to the People" from Winstermill, retrieved by Pallette from his old frock-coat pocket and fixed to the wall with court-plaster.

"Aye," Rossamund answered a little cautiously.

Europe stood for a moment while he made show of fossicking through a parts drawer. "I thought it necessary to show you the making of the traces and lesser draughts I require," she said suddenly. "Yet first I must know that I can trust the one to whom I show such learning." She paused pointedly, apparently absorbed in some mark on a parts drawer.

"I-" Rossamund hung his head. "Aye, you can . . ."

"Do you think me simple, little man?" his mistress purred, turning her keen gaze on him.

A dark thrill of compunction rippled through his soul. "I-uh-n-no . . ."

"Do you truly think I would believe even the least wit could lose you as easily as you have told to me?"

Rossamund had no response for this.

Europe took a seat on the sole highback in the room. "Pater Maupin is too well served for such a valued and missing servant to remain unfound . . . And you and I together know that you could not have ended your pursuer."

"No . . ." His voice was the merest breath of air.

Even this small admission was a profound relief.

The fulgar beheld him.

Glance by reluctant glance, Rossamund lifted his attention to look at her squarely and found in her canny hazel regard that she understood much yet held her words . . . Rossamund was grateful she did not press for more.

Abruptly, she produced a thin tome from her coat, hand-bound in scuffed and reddened reptilian hide. "This is an expurgatory, a lahzar's list-"

Rossamund sucked in a breath.

"I see you know of them." Europe's smile was thin. "You must never be found with it-suspicion is one thing but proof another. Stow it the same with cunning you are employing to keep last night's secrets . . ."

Rossamund stared at the small volume in awe as it was handed to him. Within was a collection of disparate papers, marked mostly in two hands: one he did not recognize and the other he instantly identified as Licurius' graceful script. The thaumacra were in order of incidence of use rather than letter-fall: saltegrade, unbordated felibrium, levinfuse, syntony, sangfaire and several more. Among the recipes were esoteric hints to sources of the best parts, impossible properties like falseman's ichor or kraulschwimmen gall, and their nearest alternatives, quotes of ancient lore and even scrawled obscenities against the unterman.

"Saltegrade is for before every fight," Europe explained. "Levinfuse is for the biggest stouches, felibrium I have to take at the start of each week and am currently running low . . ." She went through them all.

A little lighter in his heart, Rossamund stared at the script for saltegrade as if to press it into his mind, repeating the parts over and over under his breath, "Three parts Spice of Zichre . . . one part salt-in-gloom . . ." He looked up. "Miss Europe, I apologize for . . . for trying to save the Grackle . . . and provoking that Maupin fellow."

Pursing her lips, Europe considered him, her eyes clouded, her intent unclear.

"One might think," she said at last, "that with an Imperial Secretary, a military clerk and a ma.s.sacar of minor talent as enemies, our tale had its count of antagonists without adding more."

Rossamund looked at her shamefacedly, but she did not notice, nodding rather to the black stink rising from the testing pan behind him.

"I think you will need to brew again, little man," the fulgar said mildly, "unless char is to be your latest innovation on my treacle."

11.

A STATELY INVITATION.

nuntio(s) official messengers of the Emperor and his regents, and, when required, bearing the authority of the one who sent them. Their private counterparts-used by magnates and peers-are the sillards (sing. silas). Both are distinct from scopps and mercers in that they are especially engaged by individuals for their exclusive service, rather than being available for general hire.

THE new day-the knaving day-was an insubstantial gleam when Rossamund roused, washed, dressed, breakfasted and turned out in the coach yard with all the military haste of a pageant-of-arms at Winstermill.

"An unripe start for young and old, is it not, sir?" Latissimus muttered affably as he and the stablery hands heaved the tarpaulin-covered landaulet out into the yard proper, ready for hitching horses.

Rossamund smiled and breathed into his cupped hands, staring up at the icily clear sky.To the south the element was souring, as spring was wont to do in these lower climes-a poor promise for a day of travel. The c.l.i.tterty-clatterty jink and rough panting of horses sounded on the Harrow Road, bringing his attention earthward.To his astonishment two taut fellows rode into the yard, each astride a horse of the richest velvet black harnessed in shortened petrailles. In his first shock, Rossamund thought them agents of Pater Maupin and the roust sponsors returning to rea.s.sert their demand for satisfaction, yet he quickly fathomed by the cut and mottle of their harness that these two were of a more official sort.

One rider in a black long coat and mitre was clearly a duffer. His companion, a man in courtly splendor, equally sable-clad but with fine lacings of pristine white and wearing a thick periwig of black, peered up at the house with veiled apprehension as he let one of the stablery hands take his horse by its bridle.

"Well-a-day, good sirs," Rossamund greeted them firmly, even as Mister Kitchen emerged from the house,Wenzel the footman in tow to do the same.

"Nuntio Malapropus," the splendid periwigged fellow enunciated, looming over them on his well-harnessed steed, attention turning back and forth between Rossamund and Kitchen, unsure of whom to address. "I am sent by his plenipotentiary graciousness, the Archduke, with a dispatch for the Lady Rose, Heiress of Naimes."

A nuntio! The young factotum marveled. Such as these were only ever sent from important folk to other important folk upon important occasions. Instructing Kitchen to usher the ducal messenger to the hiatus, Rossamund hurried to Europe's file two or three steps at a time.

"The Branden Duke has dispatched a nuntio," the fulgar observed coldly, issuing only half harnessed from the obscure door that led to her boudoir. "How sweet." Patently unhappy at the interruption, she peered down into the yard. "I wonder what can have moved him to send to such humble folks as we," she concluded frostily.

Taking her time to dress in partial harness, Europe finally stalked from her file, Rossamund scuttling after. Down in the vestibule, the Branden Rose thrust open its glossy black doors with a flourish.

"Gracious lady," cried the sartorially splendid nuntio with stilted enthusiasm, turning with a hasty jerk from his candid inspection of a great painted screen of a bogle hunt stretching across one whole wall. Bowing long and low, the man swept his white-edged tricorn before him in a complex movement, ending with it wedged firmly under his left armpit. Draped across his black wide-hemmed frock coat with its white tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs was a silken sash of sky blue that matched the vibrant stockings and fancy mules he wore instead of boots. High upon his back he bore a satchel of buff, cowhide naturally blotched black and white in the mottle of Brandenbra.s.s. The nuntio straightened and stood tall, impressively dignified.

"I am come to stand for his grace, the Archduke of our most beloved city, and, upon his behalf and the behalf of his loyal Parliament, offer you a worthy invitation."

"An invitation, indeed," Europe returned, utterly unimpressed. "Have I been good or have I been bad, to warrant such a gesture?"

The nuntio said nothing but simply produced a black hide envelope from his satchel and handed it to her.

Looking down at it with one brow arched, Europe took the communication between thumb and forefinger as if it were an unsavory item. "You shall have my answer presently, man."

The messenger hesitated, ashen-faced. Clearly he expected an immediate response. "I should not wish to burden you, my lady, with any insistence, but-"

"Then don't," Europe said with the finality of a firmly closed door, pulling a bell-rope. "You may remain in my yard-it is a fine day to be out. One of my servants shall bring a reply when there is one to bring. Mister Kitchen!" She tilted her head, raising her voice ever so slightly. "Please see Master Nuntio to the door, thank you."

The nuntio remained for a moment longer, weighing his response. Finally, with another grand sweep of hat and arm, he declared, "I shall await your answer outside." Bidding them good day in a cold, stately voice, he left, shepherded out by Europe's steward.

Europe left the hiatus to go to her file, black buff envelope in hand, still unopened. "Are you coming, little man?"

He hurried after.

In her file, the fulgar finally opened the communication, producing from it a fine-looking fold of high-quality paper edged in equis.p.a.ced squares formed of some dark metallic substance. At the top was a sigil device in black of a rabbit in rampant pose above the letters PDetC.

"It is indeed an invitation," Europe affirmed, clearly reading far ahead of Rossamund's own wondering, sluggish pace. "The dear," she growled-by which Rossamund could only a.s.sume she meant the Archduke of Brandenbra.s.s-"wants this very day to meet with me!"

"Why?" Rossamund said in fright. "Does it say?"

But she did not answer him, p.r.o.nouncing instead, "Go, Rossamund. Put on your new harness. Our knave is suspended again." She almost spat this last. "Today we meet instead with the ruler of this terrible city."

Kitchen was called, her reply given and the nuntio departed.

To the clatter of retreating hooves, Rossamund went directly to his set to ready himself.

"A meeting with the duke hisself," Pallette breathed in awe as she bustled in bearing a new jug of water for washing.

Deeply impressed, Rossamund washed for a second time that morning, scrubbing back of neck and behind ears; he pared his nails and Pallette waxed his hair so flat and stiff that it sat like an arming-cap upon his head. When all was done, he felt so clean it stung.

For such a meeting the Branden Rose went dressed in a long-hemmed weskit of scarlet soe with intricate black piping down its front and a high b.u.t.toned collar in black. Despite the cool spring day, her arms were thinly covered in bag-sleeves of white gossamer gathered tight over her forearm with short black vambrins. With this she wore a wide skirt of sleek deep magenta with glorious twirls and lacings of thread-of-silver along its pleats and hem, and her usual bright-black equiteer boots. Most of her hair she wore down, with her rebellious fringe pinned under a compact variation on a tricorn fixed somehow to her crown by a glossy black comb and two simple hair tines. Finished with a light dusting of cosmetic unctions, she looked almost girl-like, winsome even, someone you might want to protect.

Sitting next to her, Rossamund tried not to blush.

"Whatever troubles you?" the fulgar asked him, her gaze at once challenging and amused. "Have you never seen a woman before?"

They set out aboard the covered town coach pulled by a pair of glossy black geldings.These were superb-looking creatures, different from the drab nag Rossamund remembered taking them across the Brindleshaws all those months ago.

Barely across the Midwetter bridge, the coach was intercepted by a gaunt, plain-harnessed gentleman running before a planquin-chair borne by four wiry men liveried in rouge and deep carmine-the mottle of Naimes. Possessing an air of solemn, predatory confidence, the gaunt fellow looked into the cabin and regarded them with all the shrewd patience of a hunter.

"Mister Slitt, is it not?" Europe spoke first, crooking a brow at the man.

"Aye, m'lady, Elecrobus Slitt, appendant to the Legation of Naimes," the fellow answered, half bowing and touching a knuckle to his grizzled and balding pate. "And I pray thy pardon for the interruption, d.u.c.h.ess-daughter, but my Lord Sainte wishes to speak with you."

Out from the comfortable box climbed Lord Finance, Baron of Sainte, Captain-Secretary and Chief Emissary of the Naimes diplomatic mission, his smile warmer than the weak morning sun. "I hear you are off to the Archduke's court," he observed lightly as he clutched the door frame and sprang boldly to the long step. "May I join your diurnal jaunt, gracious daughter of Naimes?"

Rossamund looked sidelong at the man. He already knows?

Europe regarded Finance subtly. "I shall not hinder you, sir."

The Baron's smile broadened-if such a thing were possible. "Thank you, Mister Slitt," he called behind to the gaunt man standing guard close behind. "You may return to Highstile Hall."

Regarding his master with uncomplaining-Rossamund thought almost sad-eyes, Mister Slitt gave a curt bow and led the dogged planquin-carriers back down the Harrow Road.

With unexpected nimbleness, the Baron leaned out, opened the carriage door and swung in to sit a little heavily beside Rossamund. He let out a contented sigh. "I come to furnish you with intriguing intelligence regarding your ducal summons."

"Do you now, Baron?" Europe remained cool.

A pause.

The fulgar would not be drawn.

"You must have figured for yourself, d.u.c.h.ess-daughter," the Baron continued, "that after his excursion from his seldom-left den to accost you yesterday, Pater Maupin went immediately to complain to the Archduke of you and, once again, of your servant brooding here beside me.You are quite the busy fellow, are you not, Mister Bookchild?"

Feeling his cheeks redden, Rossamund maintained his inspection of the pa.s.sing city. Was there anything this fellow did not know?

"He certainly tests an exceptional treacle," Europe added drolly, giving her young factotum a satirical look.

The Baron's expression was tight now. "I am sure, gracious heir, he does. But you must know too-as one of Brandenbra.s.s' worst-kept secrets-that the duke himself has a stake in the pit your factotum is supposed to have spoiled and that the missing wit-one Syncratis Pater-is . . . or rather was a nephew of Maupin's."

Rossamund held back a groan of regret. I should have come home sooner! He began to chide himself, then stopped. If he had done so, the Grackle would be dead now and Ginger-rice, and a good many other undeserving frair with them. As hard as the way was becoming, it was still the better path.

"The servants of Maupin ought to think better than to come after my own," the d.u.c.h.ess-in-waiting proclaimed. "Do you truly conceive my small-framed factotum could have undone this Syncratis fellow?"

"Surely not, m'lady," the Baron conceded. "Yet which version do you figure the Archduke will prefer? He was, dare I confess, pleased to have such witness against you. I overheard him quip that the Rose was falling at last on her own thorns." He lingered on this last phrase pointedly.

"Tell me something novel, sir," Europe growled. "His resentment of my residence in his state is common stuff."

Touching his knuckle to his lips, Finance made a small coughing sound. "I have to own, gracious lady, that no stately lord would desire the heir of a rival living within his curtains. As much as anything, he fears war with your mother should any ill befall you whilst in his care ...

IDIAS FINANCE.

BARON OF SAINTE.

"So you side with the Archduke, Lord Sainte?"

Finance's genial manner finally slipped. "We have argued this at many turns, m'lady," he said gravely, "and you know my side is ever with you, limb and blood."

A pause lingered pregnantly.

The Baron pressed knuckle to lip again. "I might dare to offer that you consider leaving this city before we suffer more of Mister Bookchild's adventures."

Obstinacy flashed briefly in the fulgar's veiled thoughts, but her voice remained even. "We would be on the knave this very morning but for my cousin duke's beckoning."