"The reverse never stops amazing me," Europe returned. The fourth day of the knave was gray and threatening, spring yearning for winter's return. Europe's mood-already mildly amiable-lifted that little more. Out the other side of the Broom Holm, the pastured meadows gave over to wide spreading vineyards, roll upon roll of land striped with dark parallel lines of grapevines. Sighted briefly between cedar hedgerows and the folding land stood the ancestral homes of the landed peers. Some were blocky, fortified greathouses standing watch over anciently righted holdings; others were grandly modern palaces of the new rich whose only concession to the rumored assault of monsters was to have their lowest windows set higher than a tall man could reach.
The Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes inhaled deeply and looked about complacently. "How I much prefer this open-seat travel to going cooped in a stuffy cabin, to feel the wind's breath on my brow and the taste of the land on my lips."
"Can't say I smell more than dirt," Fransitart offered, scowling over his shoulder at the dark billows that were blowing up from the southwest and bringing with them a sweet sea tang. "We salts bain't much use for snufflin' things-the sea encourages us ter forget that sense as soon as is naturally possible."
Europe arched a brow and sniffed.
Fixing his sabine scarf about his throat a little more warmly, Rossamund grinned. Come weather fair or foul, he too could travel all his days like this, floating somewhere between destinations, the cares of before left behind, the cares ahead yet to come. Smiling at the flattening vales of ordered green, one eye still out for a glimpse of Darter Brown, he became steadily alive to a hidden and unfamiliar disquiet. "The land is not as restful as the rich builders with their low windows reckon on," he said, gaining only puzzled glances from both his old masters and new mistress.
The Branden Rose peered at her diminutive employee with shrewd calculation. "You speak evidently of the subtleties of the threwd, little man."
"Aye, Miss Europe." He looked at her earnestly. "It is only slight, but it is not kindly."
"Hence our need to come here, yes?"
"Aye," he returned inaudibly.
Attending to the directions given by Craumpalin from the written pilot provided to Rossamund when he accepted the singular, Fransitart turned them off Iron Street and took a tributary drive marked by a thin white stone. In excellent repair-probably through private funds-this path made for good speed, and the landaulet fairly clipped by flat pastures interspersed with vines and orchard groves in full and glorious flower.Watching their flocks in sheep-mown fields, heavily armed and harnessed shepherds peered at the rapidly passing newcomers and did not return Craumpalin's curt wave.
As the gray day dimmed toward its conclusion, they came into view of a large handmade hill, its broad, level summit ringed thickly with cedars, from behind which rose the chimneys, ridge-caps and gables of an enormous manor.
"Our destination, I am thinking," Europe observed.
Finding a somewhat precipitous ramp rising along the northern flank of the hill, Fransitart encouraged the weary horses to climb this last obstacle. Through open gates at its summit they entered unchallenged into a broad, partially paved square with service buildings on every side and a neat garden copse of large ornamental pear trees and a spreading cedar in the middle. Veering left and scattering chickens, Fransitart brought them to a halt before the outspread steps of a stately facade of pink stone and a great many windows.
Striding down to them from the doubly high front doors, the anonymous pastoralist of the second singular, splendidly attired in a wide frock coat of expensive indigo, met them. "Welcome! Welcome well to the Dike!" he cried, his arms gratifyingly wide. Introducing himself with a long bow as Monsiere Decius Trottinott, Companion Imperial of the Gate and heir of the Patredike, their host handed Europe from the landaulet as his yardsmen took Rufous and Candle, the carriage and the luggage too into their charge. Without even a glance at any documentation, Monsiere Trottinott welcomed the Duchess-in-waiting and her faithful staff openly to his bastionlike home and holdings.
"You can well imagine how hopeful I was when the communication arrived from the coursing house that it was the great Branden Rose who consented to effect my solution," he declared with gusto. "How gratified I was when I received communication from your own gracious hand confirming the same!"
Europe received his enthusiasm with queenly equanimity, neither falling into aloof superiority nor letting herself be caught up in the tide of his candid delight.
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 glasses 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 surreptitiously 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 mass of wrestling warriors in Imperial and Turkic harness.
"That is the moment when my grandsire earned his honor and his title, 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, Duchess 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 glass of sweet yet sour agrapine.
Settled, they were joined by a handsome woman in a flaring dress of rich satin, grass-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.