Despite his southern name, Monsiere Trottinott spoke with a refined and common Grumid accent, spontaneously showing away his wide barns sheltering all manner of rural equipages, his buried cellars smelling of musty grapes and full to their low groin-vaulted ceilings with innumerable wine presses and pipes of properly aging vin, and the gala hall with its family crypt beneath, entombing generations of his line back to the founding of Patredike in HIR 1401.

"Ahh, but pity us, your graciousness," Monsiere Trottinott went on as he showed them at last through the domed entry hall of the main manor to a grand hiatus, "that in our two hundredth year we are beset by some secreted evil that steals my sheep, tears up my precious vines and-foulest of all-wounds and attempts to carry off my loyal sheepmen!"

"The pity, Monsiere, is that I could not come to you sooner," Europe replied with practiced grace.

Trottinott nodded and gave a gratified bow, offering Europe a plush seat and simpler benches for her three fellows. "Your graciousness is most gracious."

The day's early threatening gray finally brewed into a storm, rattling windows, gusting down chimneys, setting sumptuously liveried servants in silken blues to hurry closing shutters and drawing drapes.

A jut-jawed steward entered bringing a tray of fine Heil gla.s.ses of delicate powdery blue and a refreshment the Monsiere called agrapine.

"You must try," he insisted. "It is from the gleanings of my own pressings, would you believe! It tastes full, though it is not at all strong-perfect for just before a meal."

Taking his portion, Rossamund surrept.i.tiously eyed the wonderful luxurious clutter of the many-windowed hiatus. Between bookshelves swollen with books and red marble columns, every panel and wall was hung with paintings, large and small, mostly of people in portrait or action, and making the room seem filled with a veritable crowd of souls. Even the lofty coffered ceiling was alive with many prospects, in-cluding-directly above him-a glorious campaign scene of a man in the mottle of the Empire standing prominent in a ma.s.s of wrestling warriors in Imperial and Turkic harness.

MONSIERE TROTTINOTT.

"That is the moment when my grandsire earned his honor and his t.i.tle, and his ever-grateful heirs their elevation," the Monsiere offered smilingly, breaking into Rossamund's craning fixation.

"Aye, sir, at the Battle of the Gates, just when-late in the day-the Turkoman flank was collapsing," Rossamund returned in uninhibited enthusiasm, "just before Haroldus met and slew the Slothog!"

"One and the same!" Trottinott clapped once in delight. "Hark, here is a proper student of matter to show my boys how it is done! I must praise you, d.u.c.h.ess Rose, for your young servant's fine address; how excellent it must be to be served by such learned fellows."

Europe gave a single, slow blink. "Indeed it is, Monsiere . . . very excellent."

The young factotum blushed as Craumpalin gave him a subtle nudge. Vaguely conscious of his mistress' gaze upon him, Rossamund fixed his attention on his delicate gla.s.s of sweet yet sour agrapine.

Settled, they were joined by a handsome woman in a flaring dress of rich satin, gra.s.s-hued with thin peach pink stripes, her entrance marked with the comforting swish-swish of her skirts. Trotting dutifully beside this gracious woman came two children, both boys, turned out in neat suits of deep warm blue like their father: one little, the other nearer to Rossamund's own age.

"Allow me to name my wife-Lillette, the Madamine Trottinott . . ."

The auburn-haired beauty curtsied low with well-practiced ease and a slight creak of stays, her elaborate curls falling about her face and neck. "Gracious lady," she said with great gravity, the doubt in her eyes at this martial peeress discreetly contained.

"And two of my triple joys, Autos ..."

The older boy bowed, saying with already breaking voice, "I am delighted, graciousness."

". . . and Pathos."

The younger boy grinned. "Hullo, my lady!" he said with a slight rustic burr.

"And hullo to you, small fellow," Europe returned with the perfect model of an amiable smile.

"He loves to spend his days with my moilers," the father offered by way of explanation. "Their older sister, Muse, is boarded at the aplombery in Lo, applying herself to finishing her womanly graces."

Europe sniffed bitterly as if to say exactly what she thought of aplomberies, yet when she spoke, she was civil and smooth. "So tell me more, Monsiere, of this creature that besets you. Have you seen it?"

Trottinott's face fell. "Ah. That I have not, gracious lady, though several of my tenants and servants have. All that is sure is the evidence of their ravages: my kennels empty." He looked nervously to his sons, clearly uneasy about saying too much in front of them. "Vines in ruins, flocks . . . decimated, their herdsmen hurt and demanding exorbitant incentive to stay to the watch of their folds. It would be best to speak with them. I shall call them out tomorrow. They have had closest dealings with the . . . troublers . . . Apart, that is, from the fugelman we sought from Dough Hill to hunt it-but alas, he never returned, precipitating the very writ you have so fitly answered . . . Ah! But listen to me! It is a long road from the bright city to here." The Monsiere spread his hands before them. "You should take a day to recover yourselves."

"Idle hands find mischief, good sir, and idle minds even more," Europe proclaimed, to the gentleman's clear relief. "We shall begin tomorrow. Now, if you please, direct my factotum to the place most appropriate where he might make my plaudamentum."

15.

OF BLOOD AND BASINS.

parmister essentially a foreman in charge of the various workings and facets of a franchise. Whether it is the shepherds and their flocks, the hay wards and their herds, the swains and their farrows, the moilers and their fields, the pruners and their trees, the pickers and their vines, the garnerers and their stores, there is a parmister in charge of each, and a master-parmister in charge of all and answering only to the owning lord or his seniormost agent.

INN the half-light of a fresh, still day, gentle servants roused Rossamund early. With careful quiet they stoked the hearth and set more wash-water on the nightstand, then left him be. In the serene luxury he bathed away the stains of travel in the balmy comfort of the copper basin. After a dinner the night before of a full five removes and glaces, he had been too fatigued to do more than collapse on the opulent bed and sleep, despite the gale pounding at the shutters and howling desolately down the chimney flue.

A hesitating knock stirred him and had him leaping from the water to hurry on smalls and longshanks. Fransitart and Craumpalin had come, faces kindly, eyes shining with a strange agitation.

"Slept the slumber o' the innocent, 'ey, lad?" Fransitart smiled earnestly.

Rossamund could not conjure the words to fit his confusion. He stared hopefully at his old masters and realized that Fransitart was just in shirt and weskit, that he was carrying his heavy frock coat and the long shirtsleeve on his left arm-his puncted arm-was loose. "Master Frans . . ."

With a look to the door, the dormitory master drew back the cloth of his sleeve and bared the pallid flesh on the underside of his forearm. "It's showed itself, lad ..."

There, marked by the butcher Grotius Swill during the inquest at Winstermill, and clean of any scab, was a small, scarce-begun cruorpunxis of faint red-brown lines-a monster-blood tattoo made from Rossamund's very own blood.

For a moment the young factotum simply stared at the incomplete figure. In the short time he had been afforded to work before Europe's intervention, Swill had still managed to mark what was recognizably a curling brow, a whorled eye and a nose. He was barely surprised to see it revealed, yet something within Rossamund still knotted, bringing with it a peculiar sense of dislocation, of observing himself as if from without.

"Ahh . . . I'm sorry, Rossamund," Fransitart murmured, shaking his venerable head as if he were at fault, quickly concealing the pristine cruorpunxis again under his sleeve.

Rossamund drew in deeply of the delicately scented air of the room. "I already know . . . ," he breathed, a disconcerting ringing setting in his ears.

Craumpalin nodded sagely. "I can't say I am in any stretch flabbergasted meself, lad."

"No," the young factotum persisted. Time to be out with it all, time to trust these faithful men as good as fathers . . . "A monster-lord told me so."

"A monster-lord?"

"Where, lad? Out in the Paucitine?"

"No." Rossamund closed his eyes. "In the Moldwood in Brandenbra.s.s . . . The Duke of Rabbits . . ."

"In the middle of a city!" Fransitart bridled. "Surely the line of dukes would've had a battalion of pugilists in there quick as levin to winkle it out?"

"It is too mighty for that, Master Frans. Most of the whole city doesn't fathom it's there. They never have, and I reckon they never will ..."15 "Sparrows! Rabbits!" Fransitart exclaimed softly. "Brace me to a mizzenmast tree, what else be out there?"

"More'n common folk would reckon upon," Craumpalin replied knowingly, tapping his vinegar-scarred temple.

Rossamund let out a long and shuddering sigh.

The ex-dormitory master gripped him firmly by the arms and held him in his narrow, wondering gaze.

As unlikely and bizarre as it was, Rossamund was not just some causeless aberration; real though occult processes had brought him to be. He had been formed by ancient unsullied forces, a child of the threwd, of the very earth.

Suddenly, the young factotum flung himself into the old salt's grasp, Fransitart gathering him in to clasp him close and hard, somehow managing to smother him with his thin, still-strong arms. With a great gust of tears m.u.f.fled in the rough stale proofing of the old salt's weskit, Rossamund poured out the weight and agony of it all.

"If ye were knit of me own stuff, boy, I could not love ye better!" Fransitart whispered.

"Aye, lad . . . ," Craumpalin's emotion-cracking murmur confirmed.

Fransitart released him from his paternal embrace and he looked at his masters squarely. In return the two vinegaroons regarded him in wonder.

"Well, let's have a squint at thy trunk," said Craumpalin matter-of-factly, finally breaking the tender quiet. He held up his own satchel with its brews and bandages. "All gone," he marveled as Rossamund submitted to the scrutiny. "Nought left but slight bruemes."

Indeed, where livid bruises had covered half his ribs only two days ago there were but faint shades of the old contusions.

"Tend thy pumps and tell me if it hurts ..."

Obediently, Rossamund took a deep breath . . . Barely a twinge.

"Thee always was a prodigious quick healer," Craumpalin said knowingly, patting him in fatherly fashion on the crown.

"Wish I could say the same," Fransitart muttered sardonically, bending with a wince at the hips. He fixed Rossamund with a determined eye. "We'll 'ave to be showin' me mark to yer mistress, lad," he said with old masterly firmness.

Rossamund returned his gaze reluctantly. What he was afraid of he did not know . . . Europe's rejection? Her fury?

"She surely fathoms it's comin'," Fransitart pressed. "Prob'ly been countin' th' days . . ."

"Aye," Craumpalin added. "A spoiled tooth is best pulled quick."

Fransitart nodded, hmming in solidarity.

The young factotum smiled for but a moment; then, innards knitting, he finished dressing and firmed his courage to face his mistress with this final and unavoidable proof.

By the guidance of the Patredike's amiable servants Rossamund went to the kitchen in the main house to test the morning's plaudamentum. He brewed with a distant and instinctive care while his old masters waited un.o.btrusively in an adjacent parlor, sipping sillabub made straight from the cow. When the draught was done, they were shown upstairs down a golden hall carpeted with blue and lined with tall alabaster urns fashioned after some ancient style. Rossamund's footfalls were a grim echo to the apprehensive pounding in his ears as they approached the eggsh.e.l.l-blue door of the temporary boudoir of the heiress of Naimes.

Gritting his teeth, Rossamund knocked-faintly first, firmer second-and entered.

In a suite of white ceiling and walls striped deep rose and pale geranium Europe was breakfasting alone. Already fully harnessed, she sat in a high chair by a thin-legged table, staring out the enormous windows to the panorama of half-lit vineyards and a sky scoured clean by the night's tempest. Appearing at ease in the friendly light of the full-fledged dawn, she barely acknowledged Rossamund or the two old men as she took her morning dose in its flute gla.s.s, shifting slightly in her seat, not turning her head.

"Miss Europe, Master Frans' mark has shown . . . It is a . . . cruorpunxis." Frowning, Rossamund held his breath.

In verification, Fransitart stepped forward and turned his sleeve to show the underside of his forearm.

Uttering a quiet unamazed "hmph," the fulgar barely cast a glance at the proffered limb. "It turns that our foe the dastard surgeon has correctly surmised your origin after all, little man," she said evenly as she sipped her plaudamentum, keeping her attention fixed on the vista.

Fransitart and Craumpalin retreated from the room.

"So rossamunderlings are truly real . . . ," Europe murmured, as if to herself. "Your strength is not just some happy aberration . . . An unterman in service to a teratologist ..." Finally she turned to behold him fully, her expression tight yet eyes inquiring.

He held her searching stare unflinchingly, hoping-aching-for her to take him just as he was.

She blinked slowly, bitter perceptions roiling in the depths of her gaze. "You worry I might fly into a rage? Slay you where you stand?" Her voice was low and dangerous. "And after this collect my prize at the closest knavery so to be held a savior for defending goodly folks from a most insidious trickery?"

Shrinking from her, Rossamund was not at all certain what he thought. "I . . ."

The fulgar's mien clouded. Draining the dregs of her draught, she stared again out the window. Steepling her fingers, she pressed the foremost to her lips. "I am not entirely the thoughtless invidist you might suppose me, Rossamund. I slay the monster out of need, out of right, out of . . ." She hesitated.

Rossamund stared in awe at her unfamiliar confusion.

"I slay the monster because long ago a silly hoyden, too well used to good living and in flight from her mother, sought to make much money where much money was to be made. Dazzled by the great prizes offered to teratologists, she mindlessly chose the knaving life and, being slight and terribly silly, thought a fulgar would be the best and simplest kind. No need for apt.i.tude or muscle, just point and zzick! It has served her well, protecting her from monsters without the city and those within ..." She closed her hazel eyes as if against some dark memory. When she opened them again, they were clear, determined. Reaching out, she touched his arm with surprising tenderness. "Nothing changes, Rossamund. You are my factotum, I am your mistress; the plot thickens, that is all."

A small warmth of hope unfolded within him, infusing its tender solace through every fiber of his being until he near sang with the relief of it. Of a sudden, he clasped her from the side as she sat, an awkward honest embrace filled with the smell of her, feeling just how wastedly thin the mighty Branden Rose was made by her lahzarine organs.

Startled by his action, Europe held her hands up in surprise, relented and held him in return with those same graceful hands. Releasing him quickly, she made a wry face. "A delicious irony, do you not think, little man, that it is you who has won my affections . . . A pretty paradox to figure through."

Rossamund smiled happily. "Aye."

The fulgar nodded briefly, yes, yes. "Mind on the knave now," she declared more firmly. "We have lesser creatures to find today."

To aid the course for the secreted evil, Monsiere Trottinott had sent for his squires and parmisters, parcel-holders and various tenant farmers who worked his historied franchise. By midmorning, when Rossamund emerged on the heels of the Branden Rose, most of these various heads and local men of import were gathered in the square before the enormous manor, with others yet arriving by horse, cart or carriage. Most were dressed in frock coat and longshanks-the usual country-gentry attire.Yet a few were decked in more peculiar garb of voluminous white sleeves under proofed vests of red or black, deep brown or gray, and thick high-waisted skirts striped vertically and across with bands of brown and black or brown and blue, wearing their own hair long and pulled back with broad black ribbons. Piltmen chiefs, the Monsiere quietly called them, "the descendants of the original folk that once prospered in the lands about before my sires came." Keeping apart, these chiefs spoke to each other with the same strange lilting song in their words that many of the Trottinotts' servants shared and stared at Europe with guarded wonder. "Our Bright Lady Schurmer," they dubbed her, and honored her with many solemn bows.

A table had been brought out and placed with plush chairs amid the graceful trees of the wooded park in the middle of the grounds. Here Europe sat, proofed in her usual scarlet harness, sucking on rock salt and sipping agrapine as the warming sun eased over the high roof of the main manor. She looked like a queen holding court as showy country gents and shy taciturn laborers took their turn to tell her what they knew.

For his part, Rossamund was given the role of amanuensis, writing with a stylus all pertinent evidence into the Branden Rose's ubiquitous ledger. The details he acc.u.mulated were little different from the particulars related by the Monsiere himself last night: nocturnal commotions; vines ruined; sheep sucked dry of their humours; night-watching men attacked, bruised and half strangled. There was confusion about the number of their foe: some said a great swarming many; others told of a lone giant. Together they were unable to give a more substantial description than black, slimy and prodigious great thew.

"They . . . it . . . is gettin' bolder, miss!" a ruddy laboring parmister attested. "Waylaid us in our homes in the storm last night; hammerin' and hissin' and tryin' to tear out the bars of our winders. We already toil hard on the common diems, wi'out being made to risk on our rightful vigil . . ."

"Monsters seldom observe the scales of rest," Europe answered grandly, "and-good fortune for you-neither do I."

"They seem to have a taste fer soured milk, ma'am ...," one bashful fellow with sad eyes and a fluttering, nervous smile volunteered, telling rapidly of night after night where pails holding milk on the turn were upset or drunk dry.

"Then that shall be our lure!" The fulgar clapped her hands just once. "Monsiere Trottinott, I shall need dishes of the stuff before the day is out . . . And perhaps-if you will allow it-some drops of sheep's blood with it as a further incentive."

"Surely, my lady."

The parmisters and landholders murmured in approbation as the meeting was concluded and dispersed.

Trottinott beamed in pleasure at them, Europe and the world in general. Ahh, my problem is solved! was writ clear across his genial dial.

A pair of Trottinott's servants as their guides, Fransitart and Craumpalin went by one of the Monsiere's dozen carriages to Angas Welcome to retain any pathprys or other lurking fellows they could discover. Remaining at the manor to prepare, Europe and Rossamund took an early lunch with the family, supping in a modest but excellently appointed room attached to an enormous golden dining hall.

With the glow of good food in belly, Rossamund rode with Europe and Trottinott in the landaulet, driven-with the fulgar's permission-by one of the Monsiere's own men, the Monsiere himself well proofed and armed with a long-rifle richly ornamented with curling pearlescent devices. After much boyish persistence Autos had been allowed to come too, to the howling dismay of his little brother and clinging apprehension of his mother. Solemn-faced and harnessed like his father, the heir of Patredike now sat across from Rossamund, staring at him owlishly as they were taken down to a place called Scantling Aire. A small settlement of shepherds, vineyardists and hurtlemen, it was a bare few miles to the north and the site of the previous night's theroscade.

ROSSAMuND "Have you slayed many nickers?" Autos finally spoke, his voice stiff with contained intensity. He looked straight at the young factotum with serious, gray-blue eyes.

"I-ah-aye, some few ...," Rossamund admitted after a small, sad breath. A memory of Threnody attempting to wit snarling, slavering nickers on the road before flashed unpleasantly in his thoughts.

The other boy's expression went wide, How can a boy my own age have already killed a nicker! obvious on his face.