Knowing full well that Grindrod had just departed on a south-bound lentum, Rossamund was puzzled as to what to do next. It was tempting to exploit this as a twist of fortune and take an easy day after all. However, if he did not serve one imposition now, he would only have to serve two later. Knocking at the sergeants' mess door, he asked Under-Sergeant Benedict instead.
"Well, Master Bookchild," the under-sergeant said, stroking his chin, "we must find you another task, else our kindly lamplighter-sergeant might set you more. If the Snooks won't have you, then perhaps Old Numps will."
"Who?" Rossamund asked.
"He's a glimner working down in the Low Gutter.You'll find him in the lantern store, Door 143, cleaning lantern-panes. You can clean them with him-a nice simple task for a vigil-day imposition."
Rossamund felt anxious. He had heard of the mad glimner in the Low Gutter. It was the same fellow Smellgrove had been telling of at Wellnigh.
"Be on your way, lad," Benedict instructed, "and work with Numps till middens. I'll report to Grindrod that your duty-we'll call it panel detail-was served. Don't look so dismayed."
Rossamund tried to blank his face of worry.
Benedict smiled and scratched the back of his cropped head. "The glimner might have the blue ghasts from a tangle with gudgeons, but from what I hear the fellow is harmless."
Rossamund did not share the under-sergeant's confidence.
10
Seltzermen tradesmen responsible for the maintenance of all types of limulights. Their main role is to make and change the seltzer water used in the same. Among lamplighters, seltzermen have the duty of going out in the day to any lamp reported by the lantern-watch (in ledgers set aside for the purpose) as needing attention and performing the necessary repair. This can be anything from adding new seltzer, to adding new bloom, to replacing a broken pane or replacing the whole lamp-bell.
Except for targets in the Toxothanon, Rossamund had never gone down into the Low Gutter. He had often wanted to explore its workings, but he now descended the double flights of the Medial Stair with flat despondency. A Domesday vigil wasted.
Despite a gathering storm roiling to the south, Rossamund did not hurry. He took time to stroll through the Low Gutter, fascinated by this hurry-scurry place. There were many here who rarely participated in a vigil-day rest. Great fogs of steam seeped from doorway seals and boiled from the chimneys of the Tub Mill, which stood on the other side of a wide cul-de-sac at the east end of the Toxothanon. It was a-bustle with fullers entering and leaving, burdened with bundles of laundry in varying states of cleanliness. The prentice stood aside for a train of porters hefting loads of clean clothing back to the manse, wondering if any of his own clobber was among them.
Crossing a wide cul-de-sac, the All-About, and passing by the Mule Row, a neat three-story block of servant housing, Rossamund could hear the hammering of a smith or a cooper, and with this the sawing of a carpenter. In the narrow lane beyond, muleteers trotted their mules in and out of the ass manger, mucking their stalls, scrubbing the animals, feeding them. Beyond the manger rose the near-monumental mass of the magazine, where much of the manse's black powder was stored. This structure was said to have ten-foot-thick walls of concrete but a roof of flimsy wood, there only to keep out rain. If there was ever an explosion, it would be contained by the walls and erupt through this frangible top far less harmfully into the air.
Dodging a mule and its steaming deposit, Rossamund made his way across the street to where two besomers sat beneath an awning determinedly binding straw with wire, making ready for brooms.
"Well-a-day to you, young lampsman.What can we do for you?" one of the men called as the prentice approached.
"Hello, sirs," said Rossamund, and touched his forehead in respect. Almost everyone in Winstermill was of superior rank to a prentice-lighter. "I seek the lantern store and Mister Numps."
A queer look passed between the two besomers.
"Do you, then? Well, just keep on your way past us, past the well, and the magazine, through the work-stalls and behind the pitch stand-that large hutch yonder there.You're looking for the big depository that's built right against the east-end wall.You want to go through Door 143."
Bidding thanks, Rossamund followed the friendly directions and found himself before a low wooden warehouse built beneath the shadow of the Gutter's eastern battlements. On the rightmost door he found a metal plate that read:
Even as the prentice approached the door the rain suddenly arrived, falling quick and hard. Unprotected by any eave or porch, Rossamund ignored all polite custom, opened "143" without a knock and ducked inside.
The depot beyond was truly the lantern store, he discovered, as his sight adjusted to the scant light. On either side of him were shelves, ceiling-high and sagging with all the equipment needed to mend and maintain the vialimns or great-lamps. Rows of lamp-bells without their glass stood on their collets in a line or hung on hooks from the roof beams. Whole wrought lantern-posts were laid flat in frames, ready to replace any ruined by time or the action of monsters. There were rolls of chain for mending the winds and with them spools of wire. At the end of this crowded avenue of metal and wood hung a massive rack of tools used for repair work. Chisels and heavy saws, sledgehammers, crowbars, mallets, rivet molds, powerful cutters and clamps and other devices were arranged upon it, all for the singular problems a seltzerman might face.
Despite the rain hammering on the lead-shingle roof, Rossamund could make out a small, infrequent tinkling in the gloom, like two people touching glasses at a compliment. He could not fathom why some happy pair might be taking a tipple in the dim lantern store. Curious, he followed the sporadic noise deeper into the store. A low, lonely singing, true in tone, deep yet sweet, came through the dust and tools. Will the Coster sat in posture, Upon his bed of hay. Will the Coster spake,"I've lost her!" Head sadly hung to sway. Such sad posture for Will Coster: "She ne'er should gone away." But Will Coster, he has lost her, And grieves it ev'ry day.
Beguiled, Rossamund stepped out from among the shadows and equipment and into light. An old-fashioned great-lamp lit the space, with seltzer so new it glowed the color of summer-bleached straw. Cluttered about it was a motley collection of damaged and ruined bright-limns, great-lamps, flares, oil lanterns, even a corroded old censer like those that burned at the gate of Wellnigh House. Right in the middle of it all was the singer. He was alone, sitting on a wicker chair and bent over an engrossing task. He hunched strangely in his seat, his face a dark profile against the seltzer light, his legs pulled up oddly in front. His buff-colored hair was in an advanced state of thinning, and what little he possessed grew lank and thin to his jawline. He was winter-wan, and glimpses of his pallid skull gleamed in the clean light.
There was another "chink," and the prentice saw the fellow put a small pane of glittering glass upon a stack and then, with the same hand, replace this with another dull piece.This he placed in his lap and, still with the same hand, tipped grit paste from a clay jar on to a cloth laid out on a broad barrel. He did something remarkable then. He put down the jar and, with a deft movement of his leg, picked up the cloth between nimble toes and began to polish. He used his foot-bootless and stockingless even on this inclement day-as easily as another might use a hand.
"H-Hello," Rossamund said softly.
The fellow hesitated only briefly then kept polishing, round and round with his toe-gripped cloth. "I felt you there a-shuffling," he said quietly, almost a whisper, so desperately fragile that Rossamund stepped closer to hear it better. "Have you come to help me or to hurt me?"