"Some gent's gone to fetch a woodsman or sawyer or some such to cut us proper clear," a genial lenterman called over his shoulder to Fransitart-and by association his mistress-from his high seat on a glossy yellow lentum-and-four just before them. "Might be a while till they come though…"
"Aye," interjected a grumpy wagoner from his long tarpaulin-covered dray next to the lentum. "But it will still be a blighted sight quicker'n going the Holtway," he said, swinging his arm in an exaggerated arc, "all the way about to the Dell."
"I tire of rural main streets anyway," Europe declared. "We shall take the long way to Brandenbrass and sleep rough for our last nights out."
Fransitart backed the landaulet, turned them about and returned through the swain and his hogs to take the old Holt Street. They ate a luncheon of crocidole and Scantling Aire cheese as they went, and the farther they traveled, the surer Rossamund became of human scrutiny.Yet, if it were so, no impertinent, blank-faced observer materialized this time to prove his suspicions.
The terrain became increasingly downhill, the way bending steadily south about the flank of a high round rise until it emerged from the woods between two house-sized boulders. On the right now between hill and road ran an open culvert fashioned of ancient concrete, its sluggish effluent congealed with algae of a deep and vibrant green. Hidden frogs buzzed with truculent grating voices, and humming emerald emperorflies hovered low, prowling ever-hungry over the sludge. Beyond this the side of the hill climbed, dense with pine and myrtle. Upon the left along the verge grew an unbroken line of elegant pines, and past their rough trunks the wooded land fell quickly to a panorama of a near-treeless wold, purple gray with flowering mercy jane, rolling down and away to the distant milk green sea. The pungence of the ocean blew gently on them, mellowed by the strawlike perfume of the downs.
Back prickling apprehensively, Rossamund thought he heard travelers approaching from behind, but every time he turned, the bend of road stayed empty.
"Something bain't right," Fransitart muttered.
Europe pursed her lips, eyes flicking alertly from the height on their right to the drop on their left.
Taking the gentle unerringly right-handed crook of the culvert road slowly, Fransitart slowed yet further as the way ahead contracted to pass between two large olives growing from the base of the low wall that bisected the road.Where the wall cut the culvert like a gate, rusted bars stood vertically across the drain, a sieve collecting all manner of debris. Several yards beyond this obstacle, the unfolding bend of the road revealed a curricle leaning sharply on its side, one wheel off and sitting conspicuously across the road. Beside it stood a singularly white-skinned woman in a white summer dress, all embarrassed smiles and fluttering lashes. Waving to them, her attention flicked to an angry twittering commotion in the olive trees.
Something small dashed in on the wing from the great bush, chattering angrily, diving at the ears of Rufous and Candle, flying almost into their faces, desperately seeking their attention otherwise blocked by winkers.
Darter Brown!
Fransitart cursed loudly as the two horses tossed their heads and jerked violently to the left and back, shying wildly to avoid the fierce sparrow's diminutive assault.
Standing in his seat to call Darter Brown to stop and knowing full well he had no such command over the perplexing bird, Rossamund saw hurried movement in the tree to the right, people hefting something large and round and then running with all haste. The horses reared, tossing him back into the seat. In an abrupt, shattering flash the ex-dormitory master's imprecations were cut short as the world burst, an eruption of soil and stones and sharp fragments that engulfed the poor horses with a detonation so loud it was like silence. The almighty gust of smashing air and dust lifted Rossamund from his seat, throwing him high and long to land with numbing impact, skidding and rolling on grass and needles to halt with a crack! in a cleft of spreading pine roots. Pummeled and confounded, for untellable moments he just lay there, cap-a-pie, ears deaf with a thousand stentorian ringings, unable and unwilling to move.Yet one thought shimmered clear. We have been ambushed!
18
Testudoe(s) heavy-ended bludgeon, five to seven feet long, knobbled with metal studs or wooden knots and giving a powerful and nasty blow. A very old pattern of weapon finding its way into Soutland culture from the Lauslands-who took it from the passionate folk of Ing-testudoes are traditionally made of wood and as such provide some protection from the arcs of a fulgar if you should ever choose to take on such a foe.
The first sensation to puncture Rossamund's numbness was the shouting of many voices from every cardinal; angry cries surrounded them, accompanied by the dire pops of several firelocks.
No! Fransitart! Craumpalin! Europe!
Sight still reeling, he felt rough hands grip him hard about each arm, lifting him well off his feet. At once he reckoned Fransitart and Craumpalin had endured the blast to come gather him, but there was something unkind in the handling, and the sweaty pungence that accompanied the two heavy figures hefting him was frighteningly foreign. Senses clarifying in his alarm, Rossamund saw his captors as strangers man-shaped and man-sized, robed in black and wearing white oval masks striped with two blood-dark bars. Rossamund's innards froze.
Fictlers…
With a coughing growl he exerted his strength, and, to a duet of startled yelps, pulled his arms together, throwing both masklings into each other with a fatty slap. Skulls collided, masks cracked. Rossamund wrested himself free as the two would-be captors toppled to the ground. Dropped onto his knees, he spluttered and blinked at the fume of dust and powder smoke rolling about him and drifting down the incline. Thick as it was, the roil was quickly settling, revealing the landaulet between the trunks well above and to the left, the carriage broken and tipped back, its thills now splinders. Some large pallid bulk half hung over the road-edge between two pines. With a choke of grief Rossamund realized it was Candle, ripped and fatefully still. Sobbing in a rising rage, he clawed desperately at the slope, slipping on the mat of needles as he tried to climb, pulling on thistles and barely sprouted treelings. In confused and frantic fear, he cast about the trees for his masters.
No Fransitart.
No Craumpalin.
No Europe.
There was a great furor on the unseen side of the smashed carriage, a desperate struggle of life and limb. Three penetrating zzacks! rang clear, eliciting muffled cries of agony. With this came a splash as a heavy thing slid into the mucky drain and two fellows in white masks scurried back down the road, hands over heads and wearing the scorching of a fulgar's defense.
The Branden Rose emerged swiftly from behind the landaulet, shockingly bloodied and sporting a limp, yet very much alive and alert. Her eyes deadly slits, her fuse already in hand, she did not heed her young factotum struggling through the saplings and berry runners below.
In the intensity of his relief, Rossamund let out a bubbling, choking laugh, yet the sound of it was blanked by the staccato popping of musket fire bursting with white puffs from among the dark conifers high upon the farther bank of the culvert where hidden musketeers plied fire down upon his mistress. Rossamund threw himself to the hillside by the roots of a tree, glimpsing Europe stagger and drop out of sight beyond the matted brink.
Smitten dumb in horror, he flicked a caste from his right-hand digital and threw it at the musketeers, a prodigious lob flying clear over the landaulet and the drain.The orange glare of beedlebane flashed among the trunks where the marksmen hid. Another he tossed, and another after that, the blue gust of Frazzard's powder and the yellow-green glare of loomblaze flickering a yard left and right of the orange fire.