"Just keep us steady ahead, Master Vinegar," Europe instructed, sitting erect in queenly composure. "Not too swift, not too leisurely either."
Head down, Rossamund kept his eyes on the bizarrely dressed fictler. An abysmal foulness issued from the figure, filling the young factotum with an appalling terror of black and suffocating deeps. Pulling a thennelever of glister dust from his right-hand stoup, Rossamund wrestled against the near-whelming urgency to hurry the landaulet along.
The disquietingly blank face regarded them boldly as they passed, the clatter and hiss of the wind-tossed treetops, the clop of hoof and the squeak of axle and harness the only sounds. Fransitart tipped his hat saucily to the figure, but it did not speak, or gesture, or shift its feet; it simply watched.
Rossamund peered into the shadowy pine wood fully expecting an ambuscade, yet it seemed empty, untenanted but for the single doleful caw of a crow.
The four wayfarers went by unmolested.
"Hmm, very peculiar," Europe said once they were past.
Looking behind as they rounded a bend and the road cut again into rock, Rossamund found the feather-headed figure still there, still looking after them, unmoved.
Not far on they came to a fortified bridgehead and a high gray tower, gated and well guarded. Its Branden-mottled gate wards proved unfriendly and taciturn, allowing Europe and her staff to pass only after punctilious inspection of the appropriate documents. Through the arching tunnel of the fortalice they came to a deep ravine and on the other side, upon a massive wedge of rock, stood a small grim city. Behind its high wall rank upon rank of tall white buildings rose up from the sheer rock, their roofs lead-gray or grimy clay-red. Many lofty stacks fumed from amid the usual bristle of slender chimneys, guttering dirty smokes into the wind. Great murders of crows and pied daws circled among them or gathered on rooftops to call to each other with strangely melodious songs.
"Pour Clair," Europe said matter-of-factly.
They traversed the gap upon a thin curving bridge of stone spiked with a line of great-lamps that terminated at a whitewashed double-turreted gatehouse.The steady rumble of a rushing, spouting torrent rose from the giddying rift beneath, its growling an ever-present undertone in all the township's bustle.
By Europe's direction Fransitart took them along precipitous ramps and awkward lanes to the civic hall. Named the Fallenthaw, it was tall and narrow like every other structure in this cramped, perilously situated place; its foundations were bare stones, its upper walls whitewashed, its dark roof lead shingles. It began to rain as they were admitted by stern wardens to proceed easily into the tight courtyard of white daub and dark wood pillars. Here, under a long portico drumming with the downpour, a trio of silk-wigged and silk-suited representatives of the district lords promptly met with the Branden Rose. After anxious, becking greetings, they confirmed the suppositions of the bumpkin fishermen: the dread oppressor, Gathephar, had vanished, not seen nor heard for nigh on a fortnight, where once it was troubling people twice or thrice a week.
"I am sorry, m'lady, but the job is no more and its prizes withdrawn," the senior envoy explained with clerical immovability. "We did send to Brandenbrass knavery to cancel the singular as soon as it was apparent a knave was not needed," he continued more nervously, passing to the highly unamused fulgar the proper reply from the coursing house.
The fulgar regarded the chief of the uncomfortable representatives narrowly. "Your civic masters are a mite premature in their cancellation, sir. Have their best eyes confirmed its evaporation?"
"They have, m'lady," the fellow replied with a half bow, passing her the lurksman's account.
Europe read this account then gave it to Rossamund. Written five days earlier, it was simple enough: The creature known by most as the Gutterfear or by the books as the Gathephaar is as big as houses and wrapped in dread so thick you could pickle it. I could never get close to the nucker.The snares and poisons I laid did nought to hinder it. Six nights gone I heard a loud hallooing of many throats in Timbrelle Vale where it likes to den. Upon a search at first dawn I found slot and drag that told of other nickers come in from the north to meet with our own-for I do not know how else to describe it. These same traces followed back out again-the treads of the Gutterfear with them-all scunnered to the north, the whole brood quitting the hills together. I have lurked the hills ever since, but there is nought of the beast to be found.
This be an honest and true statement made of one with sound mind, marking in his own hand. Grammaticus, lurksman and pathpry. 12th Unxis 1601 Horn. Imp. Reg.
"We can have done no more, good lady," the representative pleaded, scampering in the rain after Europe, who was now striding back to the landaulet. "Our masters are sincerely sorry for your inconvenience and can offer you residence and resupply without rate as you need. It is the least we can perform for you, come so far…"
"Your masters may keep their guilty offerings," she answered stiffly, Rossamund handing her into the now-covered carriage. "I shall make do for myself."
They took lodging at the Spout amp; Hearth on a precipitous street not far from the Fallenthaw. Despite its comforts, Europe's soured mood remained all through the short end of the afternoon. It had not lightened by the time Rossamund and the old vinegaroons returned from a brief visit to the mighty cataract that poured from the far end of the fortress town as if from the very foundations.The best treacle Rossamund knew how to testtelate did not cheer her that evening, nor did the broken night full of watery mutterings do much to improve her temper, and the next morning, they promptly pursued their way out from that disappointing, precarious city.
They were going home, the knave barely mitigated by the success at Patredike.
Their adventure was nearly over.
So soon…
"Well, this used to be more… fun," the fulgar muttered darkly. "The only felicity is the weather," she added, rolling her hazel eyes to the new diem's lowering cloud as the landaulet rolled back along the bridge they had arrived upon the day before.
No masked fictler awaited them at the intersection as Fransitart took them now left to continue on down a road named the Holt Street, riding between promontories of native stone thrusting from the heights, pouring with thin cataracts from their summits or fissures in their flanks. Eventually these gave over to low fells dark with haphazard woodlands of native myrtle, turpentine and beech. Frequently they passed great lines of neatly planted teak and oak, ringing with the cough cough cough of distant chopping or the sighing rasp of a saw.Tiny tan-and-white birds chased even tinier bugs among it all, tetching minutely at the travelers for daring to trespass.
At the next major divergence they found a large stone-and-wood wayhouse signed THE SAWYERS' SLAKE and built right under the reach of towering ancient pines. Marked by a milestone, the main way went almost directly south to Coddlingtine Dell, hidden miles away in its leafy vale, whereas the lesser road-Holt Street-continued in a gentle curve slightly south of east. Drawing carefully through a herd of crotchety pigs let to graze the verges by their surly floppy-hatted swain, Fransitart eased the landaulet to a halt before the wayhouse to let Rufous and Candle water themselves from the common trough. On again, about a mile down the Coddling Road they found the route blocked by a handful of stationary conveyances, themselves stopped by a pair of enormous trees fallen directly across the road. Folks from the held-up carriages of either side were clambering over the mighty trunks, hacking at them with whatever tools were handy-hangers, hatchets, heavy knives-one fellow even bashing at lesser branches with the butt of his musket.