There was no sign, just this single signal flare.
"Welcome to the Guiding Star," said Europe. "We shall abide here for now."
With no small relief they entered the foreyard and got out of the rain. The foul weather had blown itself out overnight and now, in the still cool, a lustrous blond sky joyfully declared the new day. Cooing encouragements to the horses and sipping one of Craumpalin's restorative draughts from a biggin, Fransitart guided the landaulet away from the wayhouse. No one spoke as they wended through woodland din, the gray bosky half-light whispering with the lingering riddles of the long night.
Bending around several tight spurs, the valley road climbed the grassy flank of a low hill, bringing them to a new and welcome prospect. Soft-lit by the porcelain radiance of heaven's dome, wide downs of ripening pastures folded away before them, fresh with soaking dew, scattered with trees, tall garners and low farmsteads and oddly regular woodlands as far as vision could grasp.
From an ancient myrtle on the crown of the next hillock, a magpie gave throat to its happy quavering music full of primeval wisdom, and morning's joy. Inwardly, Rossamund soared with the birdsong.
"The Page," Europe proclaimed, interrupting his flight. "Here, Rossamund, is parish land, a pleasant change from the ditches where you last served." She pointed with open hand to the vista.
To Rossamund the scene seemed tilted to the left, descending to the far-off basin, a dark line at the edge of sight where the entire southern sky was brooding again upon another squall. To the north, the hill they stood upon reached for miles to join with its sisters, rising yet farther to meet a distant hedge of grimmer higher mounts.
"Take us on, Master Vinegar, if you please."
Moilers and faradays were out early in the fields, scything and wrenching at weeds that grew thick at this part of the season and threatened to overwhelm whole crops.
"They could come and clear the verges while they're about it," Fransitart grumbled, veering the landaulet into the sprays of mustard weed and fennel thick on the brink of the road as he attempted to find a path through a herd of dairy cows.
The beasts' hay ward-a fellow in the meager proofing of a long smock-gave the four travelers a bold "halloo!" and a cheerful wink from beneath the wide brim of his catillium as he lazily goaded his charges with a spearlike mandricard.
"Halloo to ye too, ye mischievous grass-combing kinekisser," the ex-dormitory master muttered under his breath as Craumpalin adopted a cheerier face.
The day-orb rose and spring's early bees hummed about them inquisitively before winging away to pollinate the feral plants. Butterflies, bright azure or patched orange and black, tumbled their crazy courses. Droning wasps and emperorflies hovered, hunted, joined by curious predatory bugs unusual in bright colors. Somewhere near, just beyond sight, a cow bellowed.
"Cowherds and honeybees; what an enchanting place," Europe uttered sardonically.
"Aye, this is a pleasant way to serve," Fransitart offered with gruff cheer. "Sittin' high aboard a wheel-ed barque upon a sea o' weeds is a fine way to see out yer days."
"Very poetical, Master Vinegar," said the fulgar, affecting just the right pitch between interest and indifference.
The ex-dormitory master half turned to catch Rossamund's eye. "Can't say I've e'er wanted to perish mopin' in some damp hut complainin' of the rheum."
"No, indeed," Europe returned with a smile. "That is not an end I intend for myself either, chair-bound and sciatical. 'To die in harness' is the phrase, I believe."
"Aye, madam, that's th' one." Fransitart nodded philosophically. "To perish with yer hand to the plow, to bow out still swinging-"
"To push on to th' end…," Craumpalin added glibly.
"We are of one accord then, sirs," Europe declared with a flourish of a graceful hand. "A life of adventure for us it is, until the very end."
The two ex-vinegaroons chuckled together.
Rossamund joined them with a sad smile of his own.
With increasing frequency they found baited animals hung, dead, on fence posts: foxes, hares, possums, mink-left to be taken by peltrymen or soapers. Though the land was long cicurated and barely threwdish, Rossamund expected to spy some small bogle murdered and stiff, strung up on some fence-post hook.
Though a well-used, well-founded thoroughfare bending through the domed pasturelands, the Athy Road was not broad and straight like the Wormway that ran east from Winstermill. Several times was Fransitart forced to slow and pull aside or stop for oncoming traffic: local folk commuting carefree between towns; post-lentums or hired canty-coaches carelessly hustling to the great city; lumber wagons from the plantations or ore-carters from the local coal mine, driven by hardy wagoners and under the escort of saturnine harnessguarde in the employ of some mining cartel. With these obstacles and the usual privacy stops taken at conveniently luxuriant bushes, when sundown came they were still short of Spelter Innings, a proper wash and a cozy bunk.
"The town is really only a skip over those hills," Europe advised, pointing away northwest. "Yet the twist of the road makes it much farther. Let us stop at the nearest nook; this part of the map is easy for sleep."
Muttering of a softer seat for his aging tailbones, Fransitart willingly complied, urging the horses to pick up their trot.
In the cool, clear luster of a just-set sun, they halted in a deep crease on the right-hand side of the road, a bay in the downs that sheltered a stand of young, self-sown white oaks. To the soft chorus of sparse crickets they settled themselves for food and sleep.
"Ahh, lad, look at thee test like a wise old rhubezhal," Craumpalin observed proudly as Rossamund made treacle.
The young factotum stood a little taller as he brewed, nearly forgetting the foul sensation as he poured the Sugar of Nnun. "Give me elbow-way, Master Pin. I don't want to topple this nasty stuff on you!"
It was a cold camp-no fire at least. However, the laborium made for an excellent pot, and once Rossamund was done with his brewing, Craumpalin assumed the role of cook and soon had a savory medley sizzling out its friendly aromas.
"This is a decidedly pleasant shift from my usual encampments," Europe announced. "Hearty food and plaudamentum fit for the dinner table. If I could have, gentlemen, I would have employed all three of you years ago."
Despite the general reputation this land had for being friendly and peaceful, the night was divided into three watches-Europe neither offering nor expected to take part and Rossamund taking the middle watch. Curled on the landaulet seat and well asleep under ample blankets, he reluctantly woke at Craumpalin's firm shaking and softly rasping voice.
"Rouse out, me hearty, all is well! Tumble up and shake thyself. Time to watch the midnight world!" The dispenser pointed to the proverbial green star rising with a bulging moon in the eastern firmament. "When Maudlin's at her height, be waking ol' Frans for last lookout; don't let his limping or his groaning drive thee to too much sympathy."
Rubbing eyes and yawning wide, Rossamund climbed as easy as he could from the carriage. With a yawn, he hooked his baldric with its attached stoup over his shoulder, adjusted the digitals at his waist and made ready for all surprises.