"Not a name you want to get wrong, ey . . ."

"Ah, no, sir."

Introductions done, Plume asked Warder All to approve the meal.

"Let us give ponder to the unmerited bounty of nature ...," the metrician began with an impressively deep voice. He lowered his gaze and the other guests went silent.

Decidedly uncomfortable, Europe peered at Mister All with narrow scrutiny.

The memorial was brief, the eating long and conversation longer, ranging from the merits of one composer against another, one pen against another, one fabulist against another-each interlocutor clearly possessing his or her favorite.

For all their animation and easy familiarity, the dining talkers seemed wary of Europe-Warder All most of all. He appeared perplexed, and kept staring at her, his perceptive gray eyes clouded with bemused calculations.

In her turn, the d.u.c.h.ess-in-waiting spoke freely enough with those closest to her. As they waited for the second remove to be laid-spinach egg pie and gra.s.s-wine, maybe one of Monsiere Trottinott's own vintages-their host suddenly called her attention to the gigantic painting hung above the fire behind her.

"A recent purchase of mine," Gaspard said happily.

The whole party turned to look.

Framed in ponderous gilt, it showed an indomitable woman clad in peac.o.c.k green and a splaying aura of feathers, proudly extending her hand to a wild yet magnificent-looking fellow knelt before her. Armored in buff and hide and fur, he bore an equally princely manner despite his genuflection. Standing amid the flotsam of just-won battle, the two were surrounded by a crowd of souls in ancient clothes, each showing a different face to the moment: grief, reverence, wonder. A well-dressed group of sages among the queen's own retinue had heads together in sly deliberation. A brazen plaque beneath read "Idaho the Great Receives Tribute from the King of Lethe."

"The Neo-Athic school, I believe," Hesiod Gutter observed.

"Completely correct, sir!" Gaspard concurred then continued, perhaps a little too chattily, to his ill.u.s.trious guest. "Do you mark that rather martial-looking woman, madam, standing so alertly just behind the immortal empress?"

Slowly twisting in her seat to gaze more fully upon the image, Europe nodded.

Rossamund nodded as he examined the impressive figure standing between the historied empress and her now infamous band of scheming advisers.Wielding a long-bladed spear, the woman was clad in a thick hackle of leonguile hide over a white laminated lorica and beneath this a wide skirt of red. On her head was a high bronze helm crested with black-and-white-striped horsehair, and red-and-white checks covering the crown. This casque was pushed back to reveal a sweet-faced woman, her ruby cheeks at odds with her warlike attire and soldierly stance.

I believe that is your ancient beldame," their host explained, unable to hide a tinge of pride at this revelation. "Eurodice, Speardame to Idaho, progenitrix-so the records have it-of Naimes' governing family line."

"Indeed it is, sir," Europe returned evenly, but offered nothing more; so started, the conversation promptly returned to its usual topics.

It may have been a trick of the eye, but Rossamund reckoned a filial resemblance between the daubed, long-dead heldin dame and the living one who sat so close to him now.

"I am sorry to hear, Madam Rose, that you were attacked," declared the composer, Hesiod Gutter, upon the arrival of the third remove-spatched partridge in oyster jusine and blanched asparagus. "For all its grim reputation, ours is typically a pleasant spot in this wicked world."

"Wicked indeed, sir," the Branden Rose returned, inclining her head.

"Aye," Fransitart spoke up. "Especially when fictlers are sent out into it."

"Them fictlers is nowt but trouble ..." Spedillo-who happened to be serving the ex-dormitory master at that very moment-interjected with compulsive severity, his masters not seeming to mind his exclamation one bit.

"Hear, hear!" Hesiod Gutter banged the table in pa.s.sionate approbation.

"They seek to rid the world of nickers through the rising of the false-G.o.ds," Pluto Six declaimed, "yet even the most simply read in matter knows of the universal devastation a risen false-G.o.d will bring to all creatures: monsters, beasts and men!"

"What does it matter if some people choose to worship Lobe or Sucathes or Ninelap or any of the other however many score there are meant to be?" Gentleman Plume insisted, playing the part of contradictor. "They and their kind are far more powerful than those subject to them; as great as a man is to an ant. One so clearly superior might be said to deserve obeisance."

"Perhaps . . . ," Warder All countered, "but Lobe and all the false-G.o.ds are creatures just as we and no more able to determine our ultimate future than the ant over whom we have such apparent mastery. Indeed, we would do well to follow the ant's example, who does not give gigantic man glory or service, but maintains busy industry in the path set by Providence."

"Ah, spare us talk of Providence!" Gutter protested. "Arrant befuddling dribble . . . Leave it to the eekers, sir!" He grinned to soften the genuine intent of his words.

"What of you, Mister Fransitart?" Gaspard called. "You are a creature of the vinegar; how say you on the false-G.o.ds?"

Fransitart cleared his throat, as if he were about to address a room of marine society children. "Some lads scrawl themselves with their signs thinkin' it makes 'em safe against the nadderers, but those who reckon they've seen such false ones out in th' gurgis speak like they ne'er would want to again. That's enough for me, sir."

"Hear, hear!" was the general accord, much to the old dormitory master's satisfaction.

At the laying of the fourth remove-char-seared spit lamb and honey-roasted taters-Warder All stunned them all with the revelation that the Emperor was soon to arrive in the Soutlands upon a rare summer pageant. "He brings his youngest heir to show to we simple southern folk. And to commemorate this infrequent coming forth, the dear fellow has gone and changed the order of the arbustral months, citing his heir's name-Iudus Haacobin Mananges, or Jude-as a more fitting name for the month in which they intend to travel." To the general disbelief he presented a pristine bill properly authenticated with a madder note of Ol' Barny, the Imperial Owl.

"What month does that put us in now?" asked Gaspard, puzzled.

"We are in Unxis still, and Orio stays where it should," Hesiod Gutter explained, currently holding the offending bill. "Three days from now though, watch your hats! We will be in Narcis as if it is the end of the year, but no! One month still to come, poor once-forgotten Jude."

Rossamund shook his head. He knew of the change made four centuries ago by Moribund Sceptic III for the sake of his truculent daughter-certain folks still spoke in consternation on it-but to actually witness such power to change even the very months was bafflingly impressive. One word from the Emperor and the whole world shifted. Surely he had better, more important tasks than making alterations to the calendar that served no useful purpose at all.

Orio, Unxis, Narcis, Jude.

This new order, however, did have a more lyrical ring.

"Pettifogging poppic.o.c.kery!" their host branded it hotly.

"An astonishing waste of paper and attention," agreed Warder All. "The Archduke spoke none too kindly of it in my seminar with him ..."

"Them ink-drinking quill-lickers got nought better to do up in Clementine than burden us with needless change," Fransitart observed, to table-thumping approval.

"What other useless novelties do you bring from the city, sir?" asked Gentleman Plume.

"The usual wind of idle tongues," the metrician said with a quick and peculiar look to Europe, "which I will not bore you with here. However, among the oddities, Gyve's was only last week hosting lectures by an unknown yet patently well-connected habilist by the name of Swill or Swillings or the like. His obscurity matched only by his enthusiasm, the fellow was insisting that he has discovered a new omilia of teratoid."

Though master of his outer self, Rossamund's innards twisted sharply. He became still, the better to listen carefully. How would this be received?

"Truly?" Plume breathed. "Has he identified a friend or a foe, I wonder?"

"Friend, I would hope," Warder All answered, then continued. "This fellow insisted on calling them manikins-monsters in an everyman's form, come from the muds just as some have posited untermen do."

"What is novel about that?" Amonias Silence spoke. "Hasn't he heard of old Biarge?"

"Ah, yes, but this Swillings fellow seemed to think they are more than just some vinegar's cant; he held that they were living with us now."

"Well, that would certainly put the fox among the pullets." Gentleman Plume smirked.

"Or a pullet among foxes," Pluto said quietly.

Rossamund peered through his brows at her gratefully.

"Swill, you say?" Hesiod tapped his chin ruminatively with a fork. "I was reading only yesterday in a Mordant Mercer of very recent publication that connects a fellow with such a name very unfavorably to the dark trades ..."

Warder All made a noncommittal gesture. "Unsavory connections or no, the man went so far as to wave about some sanguine mark on his arm, saying that it was a cruorpunxis made with the blood of such a creature."

Rossamund's ears began to ring and his vision vibrate.

Swill had done more than punct Fransitart. He has marked himself!

At last the young factotum shot a look to his mistress. To everyone else her face would have been nothing but attentive and serene.Yet to Rossamund it was clear in the deeps of her eyes that her mind turned upon darker thoughts, and he knew then that their return to Brandenbra.s.s would indeed be a violent one.

21.

LIVING BY ANOTHER'S LEAVE capstan songs lively tunes-what we would call "shanties"-a product of the harshness of sea-board life, at times bawdy but always very sing-able, sung by vinegaroons in any group labor such as hauling up the anchor or winding the capstan of a ram or other vessel. A new tune might make its way into common society and flourish there for a brief moment in pantos and tavern rounds, eventually returning to the obscurity of naval culture.

DETERMINED as she was to return to Brandenbra.s.s and have at her antagonists, Europe was not fit enough for such a confrontation, nor was Craumpalin well enough for the journey. Though in truth it vexed her, the Branden Rose submitted to the scholarly security and unending comfort of Orchard Harriet until the four travelers had sufficiently recuperated. "A hasty step is ever a misstep," she said the next morning after the Grand Supper, sharing breakfast with Rossamund in her room. "I can wait . . ."

Unaware of Rossamund's injured flank, Gentleman Plume invited him for a stroll about "O' Harriet"-as the historian was fond of calling it. In the midst of the wooded hills, the manor itself was a peculiar conglomeration of found stone, dressed slabs, fired brick, aged timber. The main portion at the northern end was clearly the remains of an old fortress, with turrets, loophole windows and crenellated wall, a section at the back actually collapsed and unused, crawling with creeping vines and spangled with brilliant orange pumpkin flowers. Additions were built in stages over many centuries, completed with different processes and materials and scant regard for the manner of construction of the previous parts.

"Not the most attractive of structures, I'll grant you," Gentleman Plume admitted as they walked. "Its story is long and rather obscure, but it makes a perfectly excellent hiding hole and, properly fitted, is as snug as any fine city hall."

Nestled in the forested valley between great bald hills, this confused homey ma.s.s of stones sat among a field of turnsoles, surrounded by thick groves of blossoming fruiting trees. At the north end flowed a swift stream, its made banks dense with a narrow wood of beech and plane.

Despite Philemon Plume's vague hints about their departure, Rossamund peered about in hope of Freckle or Cinnamon yet emerging. Upon the young factotum's inquiry the younger Plume declared himself at a loss.

"Neither of them has shown himself since two days gone," he mused. "That is ever their way, my boy-to come unbidden and leave inexplicably. Where they have got to, you can be sure it is needful."

Every morning Rossamund would fright awake from rushing visions of masked perils and snarling, sermonizing jackstraws. Only after long moments would he feel with relief the warm and downy softness and fathom that his tarrying alarm was but the work of dreams' unruly vapors. With every new day he would inspect his wounds, observing in wonder the rapidity of their healing until he kept his flank and hand bandaged only to avoid intelligent questions. As friendly to monsters as these goodly folk might have been, they did not need to know that it was him about whom Swill was conducting controversial lectures.

Steadily-slowly-Craumpalin's legs knitted and he became more lucid; Fransitart's cold cleared, his bruises diminished. The bloom returned to Europe's cheeks, and a grim resolve set itself in her eye.

Most evenings Gentleman Plume would gather everyone in a large drawing room to share the fruits of their toils. Gaspard himself might read his day's theorizing. Pluto would show a particularly excellent drawing from her daily observations. Hesiod Gutter typically had them all take parts in the back-and-forth of his latest scene, or play upon the pianoforte a pa.s.sage of a movement from his long-awaited second operetta. Amonias Silence usually graced them with doggerel or a sonnet penned in moments between pages of the Gentleman Plume's dictations: There was a young lady from Flint,

Accused as a cold-hearted bint.

She took a hot coal,

And swallowed it whole;

From then on she spoke with a glint.

Even Fabia performed once, playing a cheerful tune with marvelous dexterity upon a guittern, the lively unusual music at odds with the fixedly somber expression of the player.

Encouraged to the brink of discourtesy, the guests were prevailed upon to partic.i.p.ate; Fransitart dared something Rossamund had never known him do and sang a brief selection of mildly bawdy capstan songs, each one popular enough to have the whole room chanting, thumping tables and clapping along. Beetroot-red and feeling very bland, Rossamund did the only thing he could think of, and shared definitions from a five-year-old peregrinat he had found in Gentleman Plume's well-stocked library.

"An excellent fact, sir!" Gaspard would utter, which he or Silence or Gutter would then enlarge on or correct.

To Rossamund's profound amazement, Europe consented just once to take her turn on the pianoforte. Brow slightly creased in concentration, head erect, frame upright, she proceeded to play a strong and sweetly flowing piece.

"Ahh, Phoebus Sonora in D minor." Hesiod Gutter smiled warmly, tipping his gla.s.s of viscous, dark purple sirope in approbation. "What evening would be complete without a bit of Quillion?"

Europe played on, her eyes almost closing as she dared let the pa.s.sion of the music have her, the melody transforming into a peculiarly melancholy second movement, then shifting pleasingly to a strident yet fitting finale. When she was finished, amid applause and commendations she returned to her tandem seat with a dignified air as if nothing had happened.

Philemon Plume would contribute only his presence to a night's diversions, sitting on an easy chair by the hearth, clutching an ever-present tumbler, a melancholy half smile rarely leaving his lips. Frequently, he would stare fixedly at a painting above the mantelshelf, an image of an unknown woman with bright face, lively eyes and raven-dark hair. Sometimes he would even raise his gla.s.s to it in sad salute to this mysterious absent lady.

At the start of their second week of secluded convalescence-early in the month now named Narcis-Rossamund stood one morning in the main sitting room admiring a painting. A true original by Student, it depicted martial men handing other martial men a wad of wax-and-ribbon-endorsed paper, all looking out at the viewer with lofty expressions.

He sighed long-sufferingly.

Behind him, Europe sat by the broad sitting-room windows, wrapped in a coverlet and brooding over her ledger and a slowly acc.u.mulating collection of missives.Through the help of the ever-cheerful Amonias Silence or the ever-grumpy Spedillo trotting between Orchard Harriet and Coddlingtine Dell, the fulgar had managed to get several cryptically addressed messages out to various agents in the city and had that very day received replies.

"I am making designs for our return" was all she said on the matter.

She would not allow Rossamund to see what she wrote, yet kept him close should she need an errand run. These were not frequent, and so he spent much of his day looking at the great variety of paintings hung here and throughout the grand manor.

Pa.s.sing through on a task of her own, Pluto hesitated, and, approaching Rossamund, politely remarked on his fascination with the image. "Would you care to join me out in the woods and vales to wander and draw?" she suddenly asked.

Rossamund declared that he very much would, and, careful to take his leave of Europe, he left her to her secretive plans.

Going forth in a heavy proofed long-coat of sage green and glossy copstain stuck with the feather of some mighty hunting bird, Pluto also took a two-barreled hauncet in holster at her hip. She advised Rossamund to do the same, and he proceeded in frock coat and weskit, and brought his digitals too. Giving him a small card-covered drafting folio and a stylus of his own, the fabulist took him roaming through combes tangled with only partly tamed pine woods and myrtle copses, to see, to draw, and climb the high bald hills to look east out over the pallid waters of the distant Grume. Tiniest oblong shapes, barely discernible, seemed to bob and twinkle distantly out on the waves, squadrons of rams and convoy of cargoes on their way to or from Fayelillian.

Immersed in the joy of leaf and branch and singing birds, Rossamund near forgot his cares as Pluto shared her delight for all the humble things, pointing out the names of everything she knew the names for-weeds and bugs and fallen feathers from the great variety of woodland birds that twittered and dived and scooted above, welcoming Darter Brown among them with song.

Following her lead, Rossamund pressed flowers medicinal and ornamental within the pages of his compleat or applied himself to her patient instructions to draw with a frustrating lack of success in his drafting book. Oftentimes they would lie staring down at tadpoles dancing in a pond or insect larvae playing for life in a tiny runnel chattering down the stony shoulder of some hill. On other occasions they would watch transfixed at safe distance azure-crowned asps or great dun snakes belly across one of the many obscure paths Pluto knew, or stand among a flurry of tiny lavender moths feeding on the pollens of the little white flowers that festooned the wild turf of the wooded hills. Many times they would sit on a highland meadow to gaze up at the wondrous shapes made in the vapors above by the large white springtime clouds and just breathe the curative, untrammeled aromas. Every day they ate lunch together in a small glade of tiny white flowers that grew at the base of a cliff higher up the valley.

"Oh, Rossamund! If only people could behold the native wonder of humble things!" Pluto would cry in her precise, kindly voice that Rossamund could have listened to for hours. "See how perfectly the seeds hang from the brome stalk! See the exquisite construction of the legs on that emperorfly! Or that pillboy working with such patient industry on his rotten log!"