Though master of his outer self, Rossamund's innards twisted sharply. He became still, the better to listen carefully. How would this be received?
"Truly?" Plume breathed. "Has he identified a friend or a foe, I wonder?"
"Friend, I would hope," Warder All answered, then continued. "This fellow insisted on calling them manikins-monsters in an everyman's form, come from the muds just as some have posited untermen do."
"What is novel about that?" Amonias Silence spoke. "Hasn't he heard of old Biarge?"
"Ah, yes, but this Swillings fellow seemed to think they are more than just some vinegar's cant; he held that they were living with us now."
"Well, that would certainly put the fox among the pullets." Gentleman Plume smirked.
"Or a pullet among foxes," Pluto said quietly.
Rossamund peered through his brows at her gratefully.
"Swill, you say?" Hesiod tapped his chin ruminatively with a fork. "I was reading only yesterday in a Mordant Mercer of very recent publication that connects a fellow with such a name very unfavorably to the dark trades…"
Warder All made a noncommittal gesture. "Unsavory connections or no, the man went so far as to wave about some sanguine mark on his arm, saying that it was a cruorpunxis made with the blood of such a creature."
Rossamund's ears began to ring and his vision vibrate.
Swill had done more than punct Fransitart. He has marked himself!
At last the young factotum shot a look to his mistress. To everyone else her face would have been nothing but attentive and serene.Yet to Rossamund it was clear in the deeps of her eyes that her mind turned upon darker thoughts, and he knew then that their return to Brandenbrass would indeed be a violent one.
21
Capstan songs lively tunes-what we would call "shanties"-a product of the harshness of sea-board life, at times bawdy but always very sing-able, sung by vinegaroons in any group labor such as hauling up the anchor or winding the capstan of a ram or other vessel. A new tune might make its way into common society and flourish there for a brief moment in pantos and tavern rounds, eventually returning to the obscurity of naval culture.
Determined as she was to return to Brandenbrass and have at her antagonists, Europe was not fit enough for such a confrontation, nor was Craumpalin well enough for the journey. Though in truth it vexed her, the Branden Rose submitted to the scholarly security and unending comfort of Orchard Harriet until the four travelers had sufficiently recuperated. "A hasty step is ever a misstep," she said the next morning after the Grand Supper, sharing breakfast with Rossamund in her room. "I can wait…"
Unaware of Rossamund's injured flank, Gentleman Plume invited him for a stroll about "O' Harriet"-as the historian was fond of calling it. In the midst of the wooded hills, the manor itself was a peculiar conglomeration of found stone, dressed slabs, fired brick, aged timber. The main portion at the northern end was clearly the remains of an old fortress, with turrets, loophole windows and crenellated wall, a section at the back actually collapsed and unused, crawling with creeping vines and spangled with brilliant orange pumpkin flowers. Additions were built in stages over many centuries, completed with different processes and materials and scant regard for the manner of construction of the previous parts.
"Not the most attractive of structures, I'll grant you," Gentleman Plume admitted as they walked. "Its story is long and rather obscure, but it makes a perfectly excellent hiding hole and, properly fitted, is as snug as any fine city hall."
Nestled in the forested valley between great bald hills, this confused homey mass of stones sat among a field of turnsoles, surrounded by thick groves of blossoming fruiting trees. At the north end flowed a swift stream, its made banks dense with a narrow wood of beech and plane.
Despite Philemon Plume's vague hints about their departure, Rossamund peered about in hope of Freckle or Cinnamon yet emerging. Upon the young factotum's inquiry the younger Plume declared himself at a loss.
"Neither of them has shown himself since two days gone," he mused. "That is ever their way, my boy-to come unbidden and leave inexplicably. Where they have got to, you can be sure it is needful."
Every morning Rossamund would fright awake from rushing visions of masked perils and snarling, sermonizing jackstraws. Only after long moments would he feel with relief the warm and downy softness and fathom that his tarrying alarm was but the work of dreams' unruly vapors. With every new day he would inspect his wounds, observing in wonder the rapidity of their healing until he kept his flank and hand bandaged only to avoid intelligent questions. As friendly to monsters as these goodly folk might have been, they did not need to know that it was him about whom Swill was conducting controversial lectures.
Steadily-slowly-Craumpalin's legs knitted and he became more lucid; Fransitart's cold cleared, his bruises diminished. The bloom returned to Europe's cheeks, and a grim resolve set itself in her eye.
Most evenings Gentleman Plume would gather everyone in a large drawing room to share the fruits of their toils. Gaspard himself might read his day's theorizing. Pluto would show a particularly excellent drawing from her daily observations. Hesiod Gutter typically had them all take parts in the back-and-forth of his latest scene, or play upon the pianoforte a passage of a movement from his long-awaited second operetta. Amonias Silence usually graced them with doggerel or a sonnet penned in moments between pages of the Gentleman Plume's dictations:
There was a young lady from Flint, Accused as a cold-hearted bint. She took a hot coal, And swallowed it whole; From then on she spoke with a glint.
Even Fabia performed once, playing a cheerful tune with marvelous dexterity upon a guittern, the lively unusual music at odds with the fixedly somber expression of the player.
Encouraged to the brink of discourtesy, the guests were prevailed upon to participate; Fransitart dared something Rossamund had never known him do and sang a brief selection of mildly bawdy capstan songs, each one popular enough to have the whole room chanting, thumping tables and clapping along. Beetroot-red and feeling very bland, Rossamund did the only thing he could think of, and shared definitions from a five-year-old peregrinat he had found in Gentleman Plume's well-stocked library.
"An excellent fact, sir!" Gaspard would utter, which he or Silence or Gutter would then enlarge on or correct.
To Rossamund's profound amazement, Europe consented just once to take her turn on the pianoforte. Brow slightly creased in concentration, head erect, frame upright, she proceeded to play a strong and sweetly flowing piece.
"Ahh, Phoebus Sonora in D minor." Hesiod Gutter smiled warmly, tipping his glass of viscous, dark purple sirope in approbation. "What evening would be complete without a bit of Quillion?"
Europe played on, her eyes almost closing as she dared let the passion of the music have her, the melody transforming into a peculiarly melancholy second movement, then shifting pleasingly to a strident yet fitting finale. When she was finished, amid applause and commendations she returned to her tandem seat with a dignified air as if nothing had happened.
Philemon Plume would contribute only his presence to a night's diversions, sitting on an easy chair by the hearth, clutching an ever-present tumbler, a melancholy half smile rarely leaving his lips. Frequently, he would stare fixedly at a painting above the mantelshelf, an image of an unknown woman with bright face, lively eyes and raven-dark hair. Sometimes he would even raise his glass to it in sad salute to this mysterious absent lady. At the start of their second week of secluded convalescence-early in the month now named Narcis-Rossamund stood one morning in the main sitting room admiring a painting. A true original by Student, it depicted martial men handing other martial men a wad of wax-and-ribbon-endorsed paper, all looking out at the viewer with lofty expressions.