"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 trimmings 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 Brandenbrass. 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 equispaced 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 assume she meant the Archduke of Brandenbrass-"wants this very day to meet with me!"
"Why?" Rossamund said in fright. "Does it say?"
But she did not answer him, pronouncing 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 buttoned 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, duchess-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, duchess-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 passing 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 Brandenbrass' 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."