The post-lentum eased into a siding between the cothouse and the highroad, its arrival coincident with the departure of the lamp-watch.
Alighting from the carriage, Rossamund heard a cry sound from down the gloomy road. "The hedgeman comes! Be a-ready to make your orders, the hedgeman comes!" It was uttered by a portly figure pulling his test-barrow and strolling toward the town from the same direction the lentum had just come, as if there was no threat from monsters.
A hedgeman! Rossamund's attention pricked. These were wandering folk, part skold, dispensurist and ossatomist who cured chills and set bones (for a fee) where other habilists would not venture. He had not noticed them passing the fellow earlier, though they must have.
"The hedgeman is here! Come a-make your orders, the hedgeman is here!" came the cry again, and this time Rossamund recognized the crier.
Mister Critchitichiello! Mister Critchitichiello, who made his living hawking his skills to all and any along the Wormway. When he had first arrived at Winstermill, Rossamund found it much easier to ask the kindly hedgeman to make Craumpalin's Exstinker than go to Messrs. Volitus or Obbolute, the manse's own script-grinders. Now, with the current batch near its end, and more required to last him at his new billeting, Rossamund hurried over to the man through traffic and the rain.
In the manse the hedgeman was a popular fellow. Rossamund had to wait his turn while the small crowd of brother-lighters ordered eagerly. Mostly they came for love-pomades made to secure the affections of Jane Public and the other dolly-mops-the maids and professional girls living in the towns about-or find a cure for the various aches and grumbles your average lampsman seemed always to possess. Out here, however, two days east of Winstermill, Rossamund was the only customer.
"Well 'ello there, young a-fellow." Critchitichiello greeted Rossamund in his strange Sevillian accent, grinning at him from beneath the wide brim of his round hat. "I a-remember you from the fortress.Yes? Back then you wore a hat and not a bandage."
The prentice nodded cheerily.
"Hallo, Mister Critchitichiello. Triple the quantity of my Exstinker, please. I have the list for it if you need to remember its parts."
Critchitichiello smiled. "No-no, I remember. Old Critchitichiello never forgets such clever mixings." He tapped his pock-scarred brow knowingly. "I'll have it ready for you in a puff, Rossamundo. You see! I even remember your name though we meet but once."
Rossamund followed the hedgeman as he set his test-barrow down under the eave of a small stall built against the eastern wall. A remarkable little black-iron chimney poked out and up from the back, puffing clean little puffs of smoke. Critchitichiello unlatched and unfolded his barrow, the lid swinging up to provide a roof from the rain.
Master Craumpalin would want to see this! Rossamund thought sadly of the charcoal ruin that Master Craumpalin's own marvelous test had become. He gripped the list of parts made by the dispensurist's own hand as if it were a precious jewel. He had read the recipe many times and knew it welclass="underline" mabrigond, wine-of-Sellry, nihillis, dust-of-carum, benthamyn. As he observed the testing-as making a script is called-Rossamund habitually ran through the steps in his mind. Start with five parts-no! Fifteen parts wine-of-Sellry in a porcelain beaker over gentle heat.
A familiar savory smell wafted, like fine vegetable soup, as the liquid began to simmer.
Add one-ah, three parts nihillis and…
Pumping at an ingenious little foot bellows connected to the test-barrow, the hedgeman looked up from his work, and with a frown of friendly concern said, "You know, Rossamundo, I have a-made many nullodors along these many roads, but with this a-one here I cannot figure how it might a-do its job." Critchitichiello shrugged, thick-gloved hands raised palms-to-the-sky.
Rossamund blinked. The hedgeman was such a kindly fellow he did not want to gainsay him.Yet he knew Master Craumpalin would never give him something that was crank. To question his old dispensurist's scripts was unthinkable.
"It has done what I suppose it was meant to do," he offered guardedly. "I have no complaint." Add the benthamyn.
"And good that is!" Critchitichiello kept smiling. "Yet I tell you. Up till a-now its parts are all just as they ought-a simple base for a nullodor, but put a-this in"-and in went the tiny benthamyn pellets, six parts, just in time-"and suddenly it's like a-no nullodor I've ever heard made. It might foil some noses, but not a nicker's sniffing."
Rossamund nodded patiently. He had no answer for the hedgeman. Instead he watched in silence as the mabrigond and dust-of-carum were added in right and timely proportion.
"Don't a-mind me, Rossamundo, my fine a-fellow," the hedgeman said perceptively. "Just a curious old noddy am I… I'm-a sure this no-stinker answers for what you are a-wanting it for."
Rossamund certainly hoped it was so.
Critchitichiello poured the deep blue liquid into a fine new bottle and Rossamund reached for his wallet.
Taking payment, the hedgeman looked beyond him with twinkling eye. "That sweet lass has been a-watching you for a little while," he said mildly. "Is she your sweetheart?"
Sweetheart? Rossamund looked around and saw Threnody standing beneath a lantern already lit against the dim afternoon. She was leaning against it and looking his way very, very intently. "Oh, that-er… She isn't my sweetheart, Mister Critchitichiello," he said emphatically.
"Ah.Too a-bad for thee.Though…," Critchitichiello said with a flourish of a bow, a conspiratorial whisper and a glance at Threnody, "… if you's a-needing an amorpoti-a lover's brew-just remember your a-friend, Critchitichiello."
With a blush and a garbled farewell Rossamund quit the awkward scene.
Threnody pulled a cryptic face as he approached. "What have you had that ledgermain making?"
"Mister Critchitichiello is no ledgermain," Rossamund came back, still tetchy. "He's the genuine article, a true dispenser."
"Ledgermains. Imperial fumomath. However you like it, lamp boy," she insisted. "That does not answer my question, does it? What did the man make you?"
"It's a… a nullodor. For my salumanticum."
Threnody stroked at her lips. "A nullodor! A waste of good parts. What do you need a nullodor for?"
What has everyone got against them? First Critchitichiello, now Threnody. Rossamund did not care to quibble. Craumpalin had given it to him and told him to wear it, and that was good enough.
In silence they entered Makepeace Stile together.
As douse-lanterns approached and while Threnody polished her teeth with expensive dentifrices, Rossamund decided it was time to write his own letter back to Fransitart. Dormitory Master Fransitart by the care of Lady Praeline Versierdholte Halt-by-Wall Boschenberg City Hergoatenbosch 4th of Heimio, HIR 1601
Dearest Master Fransitart,
I have got your letter and read its most terrible and sad news. I wept for you all, especially the little ones and Master P and the poor Madam, but am so glad to know that you and Miss Verline and Master Craumpalin (his poor dispensury!) still live. Though you might feel that you should not have survived the fire, it is too sweet a consolation for me that you survived to share your regret. And though you have all taught me to return evil with good, I cannot help but wish foul ends for that dastard Gosling. I can hear you scolding me in my head even as I write this. What is to become of you all now?