"We call the place Step Dribble," Mister Silence explained, giving his account to the Duchess-in-waiting as she reclined with Rossamund and Fransitart before the fire in her vasty guest room. "It is an obvious site for a trap, m'lady-by all evidence it was a mighty fight," he said with a pointed look of admiration to his listeners as Spedillo hauled in a trunk.
The fulgar nodded graciously.
"I am sorry to report that there were scant pickings," Silence went on. "Just the heaviest trunks and a farrago of matchwood that may once have been a fine cart of expensive fit. All of it has been picked over, horses and tackle taken, the fallen gone… We were desirous to remain and investigate but were encouraged to egress at the advent of several sullen, thick-browed gents, most probably associates of your original assailants," he concluded ominously. "I am sorry I could not be more illuminating."
With an uncurling of her fingers, Europe dismissed the fellow with a soft, "I thank you, sir." That evening Europe and Fransitart and Rossamund were invited to join Gentleman Plume and the rest of the household in a "grand supper," or so he named it. Going by back stairs, Rossamund squeezed among the steaming and savory bustle of the kitchen-on the cusp of serving the first remove-to test. It was slow going, his hands stiff and unresponsive, but he got the treacle made. He returned via those same servants' steps to find his mistress already gone down to dine, and Fransitart with her. Craumpalin was left to sleep, chin to bosom, hoary beard lying out along his chest.
A biggin of plaudamentum in hand and changed into a glossy suit recovered from the wreck, Rossamund descended the broad sweep of staircase that went down from the landing to a wide hall of old dark wood and white marble below. Following ears and nose, he easily navigated the narrow passages, passing closed doors and silent rooms to find his destination: an enormous dining hall of stone and tall, narrow windows to rival the banqueting palace of some fabled heathen king. Its walls were lined with many grand paintings, the grandest of all a vast fantastico of an ancient political scene strung above the mighty stone fire-place at the right end of the long space. On the hearth rug lay Baltissar, staring with hungry restraint at a whole gaggle of unknown souls who sat about a long oval dining table in the very midst of the hall. Their hubble-bubble filled the space as they chatted with happy animation among the candlesticks, glass and silverware.
Every attention turned expectantly to Rossamund's arrival. The young factotum fumbled for a moment as he tried to take the entire scene in at once, until he spotted Fransitart, red-nosed, turning in his chair to see him come in, and beyond the old salt, Europe peering at him impassively. Sitting regally at the seat of honor, she was dressed in her more usual coat of brilliant scarlet hide rescued that very day from the wreck of the landaulet.
"Welcome to our Great Refectory, sir!" Gentleman Gaspard Plume greeted him from the other end of the board. "The timing of your stomach is impeccable! Late lunch-or epicibals, as we delight to call it," he added with a perceptive wink to his other guests, "is upon the very brink of being laid. Join us, fine fellow, join us!"
Rossamund bowed confusedly, and a seat was found for him between Europe on the left and Amonias Silence on the right, the amanuensis looking fine in a soutaine of glossy gray and high starched collar and neckerchief of pristine white.
Taking her plaudamentum from him, the fulgar arched a reassuring brow.
As the first remove was served-pottage fancy, fresh rye cobs and pitchers of new spring water-Rossamund was graciously introduced to the other sitters spaced widely about the enormous oval table. First among them, to Gentleman Plume's right, was a broad fellow with a famous name: Warder All, metrician and wilder, a man seeking "to preserve nature in all its pristine splendor against the unceasing, uglifying cicurations of everyman"-or so their host proclaimed. Clad in a sturdy proofed frock coat of a surprisingly delicate pink and a white-powdered bag-wig, he had arrived from Brandenbrass that very afternoon. "He spends far too much of his time petitioning the Archduke to treat the wild spaces kindly, but today has finally seen reason and come to hide here before he takes up a survey expedition to Thisterland. What is more, my fine fellow!" — Gentleman Plume turned to properly address the subject of his introduction with undiluted pleasure. "You have brought us krebin from the darksome east and oyster too-not pickled in Patriarch's Pond, mind, but fresh plucked from their native beds at the bottom of the Branden Roads, dulcified and put in ice from the floes of Heilgolund!"
Regarding Rossamund with serene countenance,Warder All dipped his head in cool greeting.
Next to the wilder metrician was a cultivated woman in a high-collared jacket of deep viridian who wore her ginger hair up in a simple braided club as a man might. Pluto Six was her name-a name as recognizable to Rossamund as Warder All. One of the permanent lodgers at Orchard Harriet, she was a frequent illustrator of the very pamphlets and gazettes Rossamund preferred.
She welcomed him with a soft, precisely pronounced, "Well-a-day."
Rossamund was ashamed to admit he had previously thought her a man, and inclined his head part in courtesy, part to hide the flush in his cheeks.
Next-and looking vaguely uncomfortable among so many people of higher station-came Fransitart. "Whom I am certain you know right well already," said Plume with a wink. Abruptly the ex-dormitory master sneezed into a cloth. "Beggin' ye pardon, me masters…," he muttered, dabbing his nose.
Beside him and directly across from Rossamund sat a man with a delicate face and resplendent in a broad-lapeled coat of dark silver blue, his rich black hair curled and long like a wig.
"Hesiod Gutter!" he said in introduction. "Playwright-though not of those awful populist pantos, mind." He reached across the table to vigorously shake Rossamund's hand. "Manly grip!" he declared approvingly. "Excellent. Well met, sir."
"Our H. Gutter also dabbles in opera," Gaspard continued, smirking ever so slightly, "though don't let that dissuade you from further association with him."
Unfathoming at what must have been some private jape, Rossamund smiled anyway, not in the least dissuaded.
"And here is your mistress, favoring us so with her company." Their host beamed to Europe, who smiled mildly in return.
Beyond Mister Silence, on Rossamund's right, sat a solemn fellow. Though he was clothed in simpler workman's buffs and bore a gloomy aspect, his eyes were very much the mirror of Gentleman Plume's own.
"This is my elder brother, Philemon, Lord Plume, twenty-fifth Count of Windspect Folia, Master of Temburly Hall," Gaspard said finally.
Swaying a little, the Count of Windspect Folia blinked at Rossamund languidly.There was something unhinged yet percipient in his look, and the young factotum thought for just a moment he was beholding Numps.
"Always a delight to have one of your tribe to dine," the Count said bluntly, blurring his words. "However, you will have to excuse Cannelle and little Pococo; they have had to go…" He leaned in a little, and with stage whisper added, "Urgent business." The Count then returned his attention to the crystal tumbler of thick dark red liquid he revolved slowly in his hand.
Their host, his younger brother, peered at him sadly for an inkling. Pointing open-handed to Rossamund, he went on, undeterred. "And this is Rossamund Bookchild, factotum to our other honored guest, the Branden Rose, and friend to our ancient friends… Rossamund is correct, is it not?" Gaspard inquired, putting a little too much emphasis on the final vowel.