Rossamund nodded. "Aye, sir."
"Not a name you want to get wrong, ey…"
"Ah, no, sir."
Introductions done, Plume asked Warder All to approve the meal.
"Let us give ponder to the unmerited bounty of nature…," the metrician began with an impressively deep voice. He lowered his gaze and the other guests went silent.
Decidedly uncomfortable, Europe peered at Mister All with narrow scrutiny.
The memorial was brief, the eating long and conversation longer, ranging from the merits of one composer against another, one pen against another, one fabulist against another-each interlocutor clearly possessing his or her favorite.
For all their animation and easy familiarity, the dining talkers seemed wary of Europe-Warder All most of all. He appeared perplexed, and kept staring at her, his perceptive gray eyes clouded with bemused calculations.
In her turn, the Duchess-in-waiting spoke freely enough with those closest to her. As they waited for the second remove to be laid-spinach egg pie and grass-wine, maybe one of Monsiere Trottinott's own vintages-their host suddenly called her attention to the gigantic painting hung above the fire behind her.
"A recent purchase of mine," Gaspard said happily.
The whole party turned to look.
Framed in ponderous gilt, it showed an indomitable woman clad in peacock green and a splaying aura of feathers, proudly extending her hand to a wild yet magnificent-looking fellow knelt before her. Armored in buff and hide and fur, he bore an equally princely manner despite his genuflection. Standing amid the flotsam of just-won battle, the two were surrounded by a crowd of souls in ancient clothes, each showing a different face to the moment: grief, reverence, wonder. A well-dressed group of sages among the queen's own retinue had heads together in sly deliberation. A brazen plaque beneath read "Idaho the Great Receives Tribute from the King of Lethe."
"The Neo-Athic school, I believe," Hesiod Gutter observed.
"Completely correct, sir!" Gaspard concurred then continued, perhaps a little too chattily, to his illustrious guest. "Do you mark that rather martial-looking woman, madam, standing so alertly just behind the immortal empress?"
Slowly twisting in her seat to gaze more fully upon the image, Europe nodded.
Rossamund nodded as he examined the impressive figure standing between the historied empress and her now infamous band of scheming advisers.Wielding a long-bladed spear, the woman was clad in a thick hackle of leonguile hide over a white laminated lorica and beneath this a wide skirt of red. On her head was a high bronze helm crested with black-and-white-striped horsehair, and red-and-white checks covering the crown. This casque was pushed back to reveal a sweet-faced woman, her ruby cheeks at odds with her warlike attire and soldierly stance.
I believe that is your ancient beldame," their host explained, unable to hide a tinge of pride at this revelation. "Eurodice, Speardame to Idaho, progenitrix-so the records have it-of Naimes' governing family line."
"Indeed it is, sir," Europe returned evenly, but offered nothing more; so started, the conversation promptly returned to its usual topics.
It may have been a trick of the eye, but Rossamund reckoned a filial resemblance between the daubed, long-dead heldin dame and the living one who sat so close to him now.
"I am sorry to hear, Madam Rose, that you were attacked," declared the composer, Hesiod Gutter, upon the arrival of the third remove-spatched partridge in oyster jusine and blanched asparagus. "For all its grim reputation, ours is typically a pleasant spot in this wicked world."
"Wicked indeed, sir," the Branden Rose returned, inclining her head.
"Aye," Fransitart spoke up. "Especially when fictlers are sent out into it."
"Them fictlers is nowt but trouble…" Spedillo-who happened to be serving the ex-dormitory master at that very moment-interjected with compulsive severity, his masters not seeming to mind his exclamation one bit.
"Hear, hear!" Hesiod Gutter banged the table in passionate approbation.
"They seek to rid the world of nickers through the rising of the false-gods," Pluto Six declaimed, "yet even the most simply read in matter knows of the universal devastation a risen false-god will bring to all creatures: monsters, beasts and men!"
"What does it matter if some people choose to worship Lobe or Sucathes or Ninelap or any of the other however many score there are meant to be?" Gentleman Plume insisted, playing the part of contradictor. "They and their kind are far more powerful than those subject to them; as great as a man is to an ant. One so clearly superior might be said to deserve obeisance."
"Perhaps…," Warder All countered, "but Lobe and all the false-gods are creatures just as we and no more able to determine our ultimate future than the ant over whom we have such apparent mastery. Indeed, we would do well to follow the ant's example, who does not give gigantic man glory or service, but maintains busy industry in the path set by Providence."
"Ah, spare us talk of Providence!" Gutter protested. "Arrant befuddling dribble… Leave it to the eekers, sir!" He grinned to soften the genuine intent of his words.
"What of you, Mister Fransitart?" Gaspard called. "You are a creature of the vinegar; how say you on the false-gods?"
Fransitart cleared his throat, as if he were about to address a room of marine society children. "Some lads scrawl themselves with their signs thinkin' it makes 'em safe against the nadderers, but those who reckon they've seen such false ones out in th' gurgis speak like they ne'er would want to again. That's enough for me, sir."
"Hear, hear!" was the general accord, much to the old dormitory master's satisfaction.
At the laying of the fourth remove-char-seared spit lamb and honey-roasted taters-Warder All stunned them all with the revelation that the Emperor was soon to arrive in the Soutlands upon a rare summer pageant. "He brings his youngest heir to show to we simple southern folk. And to commemorate this infrequent coming forth, the dear fellow has gone and changed the order of the arbustral months, citing his heir's name-Iudus Haacobin Mananges, or Jude-as a more fitting name for the month in which they intend to travel." To the general disbelief he presented a pristine bill properly authenticated with a madder note of Ol' Barny, the Imperial Owl.
"What month does that put us in now?" asked Gaspard, puzzled.
"We are in Unxis still, and Orio stays where it should," Hesiod Gutter explained, currently holding the offending bill. "Three days from now though, watch your hats! We will be in Narcis as if it is the end of the year, but no! One month still to come, poor once-forgotten Jude."
Rossamund shook his head. He knew of the change made four centuries ago by Moribund Sceptic III for the sake of his truculent daughter-certain folks still spoke in consternation on it-but to actually witness such power to change even the very months was bafflingly impressive. One word from the Emperor and the whole world shifted. Surely he had better, more important tasks than making alterations to the calendar that served no useful purpose at all.
Orio, Unxis, Narcis, Jude.
This new order, however, did have a more lyrical ring.
"Pettifogging poppicockery!" their host branded it hotly.
"An astonishing waste of paper and attention," agreed Warder All. "The Archduke spoke none too kindly of it in my seminar with him…"
"Them ink-drinking quill-lickers got nought better to do up in Clementine than burden us with needless change," Fransitart observed, to table-thumping approval.
"What other useless novelties do you bring from the city, sir?" asked Gentleman Plume.
"The usual wind of idle tongues," the metrician said with a quick and peculiar look to Europe, "which I will not bore you with here. However, among the oddities, Gyve's was only last week hosting lectures by an unknown yet patently well-connected habilist by the name of Swill or Swillings or the like. His obscurity matched only by his enthusiasm, the fellow was insisting that he has discovered a new omilia of teratoid."