Upon hearing of yesternight's stouche, Europe's first response was open displeasure. "You were content then, Rossamund," she had said with forcibly leveled tone, "to let this beast be free to spoil these good people's graves and eat their long-loved dead like nothing more than scringings from a licensed victualer."
"Of course not, Miss Europe!" the young factotum protested, stung more than all by the realization that he had not properly considered this last night. "I–I had to stay to my watch!"
"Aye, better a safe camp than personal glory," Fransitart added stoutly, frowning in support.
The fulgar regarded the old marine society master as if looks alone might flatten him. "The next time you go to play the teratologist, Rossamund, know your place and seek me for the work!" she reproached him, pressing fingertips to forehead in exasperation. "My capacity to protect you will be greatly diminished if you warn off every prize and make me the poorer for it!"
"Aye…" Rossamund had kept his voice firm.
On the move again, and with treacle in her humours, Europe had found calm. "It occurs to me a touch peculiar, Rossamund," she declared almost absently, sucking daintily on some common rock salt, "that you were not aware of your bogle-slaying strength earlier in your life."
Rossamund had no answer for this. "I-," he tried, but did not know how to put into words that only under great threat had he discovered more vigor in him than expectation led him to reasonably employ; that this bogle-slaying strength was more like a well within him than a constant state of being; it was something, he was learning, that he could draw from by choice rather than just continuously and thoughtlessly available thew.
The fulgar's eyes glittered with mild mischief. "What of your younger days playing at slaps or parleys with the other bookchildren? Did you terrorize your fellows with great feats of might, little man?"
"I did not know I had such strength to use," the young factotum replied with a shrug. Freckle had once said a long time gone some obscure clue about Rossamund having to yet learn this strength. He grimaced. I guess I am learning it now.
"Aye," Craumpalin said in support. "Thou cannot spend money thee doesn't know thee has."
"Perhaps," Europe replied musingly.
Although from the view atop the hawthorn hill it seemed only a few mounded fields over from their night camp, Spelter Innings proved to be well more than an hour distant by the circuitous wendings of the Athy Road. The day-orb peeped above the folded greening and warmed the travelers as they traversed a small arch over a reedy creek. At its end, they were confronted by a stone wall spiked with what appeared to be newly cut thorn-withies. In this was a heavy, cast-iron gate as tall as three tall men, the portal into the town at last.
"Who comes hence!" the heavy-harnessed gaters challenged peevishly, appearing from small sallies hidden by the dense runners. For simple gate wardens they were as impressively dressed as their courtly counterparts back in the halls of the Archduke. Looking terribly harassed, they showed themselves willing, with muskets cocked and fends lowered, to vent their troubles on any awkward foreigner.
"You recognize me full well, you uppity gregorine!" Europe bit in turn, causing every single gate ward to blanch. "Next you will be asking me for patents of my degree and proofs of my station! Know your place! Open up and let us through!"
In contrast to the sour welcome, Spelter Innings was a gorgeous town, nestled in the shallow folds between the meadows. Bustling with morning activity, every street and lane was a flourishing avenue of spring blossoming almond, lime, cherry and plum, filling the morning with perfumed glory, sweetening the fragrant wood-smoke. Local geriatrics sat on the small balustraded porticoes of their simple high-houses built right up against the main way, watching the passing of all below, with a friendly "halloo" to their neighbors and a mistrustful stare for strangers.
Curiously, as they passed from the town by its farther gates, Rossamund spied a reddleman among the traffic, the dye-seller walking in the same direction. Is that the same fellow we found under the Catharine wheels? Yet this was not possible; how could a foot-going vendor overtake them?
Catching his shrewd inspection, the bedraggled hawker called, "One sparkle gets a fine bit of madder for the rich gent!" and held up a pot in hands tainted bright scarlet. There was something slightly off-beam in the fellow's eyes, something frantic and overexercised.
The young factotum ducked his head and pretended not to hear.
Leaving the red-stained dye-seller far behind, they continued deeper into the wide, fertile peace of the Page, traveling under a dome of near infinite blue, clean white clouds plumping on the horizon ahead. Trees here were far and few, lonely, wind-bent pines and myrtles pruned by hungry herds into elegant parasol shapes. It was only when they were well into the day that Rossamund realized that Darter Brown had not shown himself. The young factotum began to half consciously search the skies for his miniature friend, scrutinizing every bush or spray of weeds, but not a glimpse could he find.
They went through several hams not properly marked on Craumpalin's map, homey sheltered nooks built in shallow dingles fenced with guarding pines and turpentines and the rubble of ancient stones, each settlement bearing a peculiar name like Windle Comb, Plummet Fulster or the Larch.The folks of these places reckoned themselves so unfailingly safe they went about in only day-clothes, with at best a single garment of proofing. It was a stark contrast to the vigilant rural settings Rossamund had encountered in the Idlewild. The night was spent in the major civil center of Spokane, a bustling place of high slate houses approaching the gravity of a small city. In the cheerful clarity of a fresh day, Rufous and Candle took them faithfully north out from Spokane along a busy road called Iron Street that cut high muddy-sided channels through steep wood-fenced meadows of fallow loam or rippling green. Stunted self-sown blossom trees prettied the verges of their path with their pink plum blossoms or sprouted from the lee crest of a hill. Here and there were prominences clearly artificially enlarged into broad oblong mounds of ancient stone, some topped by stocky tumbledown towers, the relics of another people's departed glory decaying beneath teeming weeds.
Rossamund spent much of his time distractedly looking out for Darter Brown, but could find no hint of him, and of the many little birds he saw, none flew up to greet him.
In twinkling twilight they found a village called the Broom Holm, a timber and mutton town built near the northwestern tip of what Craumpalin's chart named the great forest of thornwood and protected with the more usual high stone curtain. The most remarkable feature of this modest settlement was the grand copper-domed tower of a tocsin that rose well above its other humbly proportioned structures, a self-important display of the success and circumstance of this parish.
Tail-sore and bleary, the four found their rest at the White Hare, a three-story wayhouse established to service the vigil jaunts of wealthy city folk, providing all the luxuries they expected.
"I could grow right partial to such traveling comforts," Craumpalin observed, smiling a little dreamily as he surveyed the plush room, all creams and whites and subtle greens. "Never in me life have I known such a run of cozying beds."
"Aye," said Fransitart, clearly at ease. "It ne'er stops amazin' me to think souls live all their days like this."