"I…" was yet forming in Rossamund's mouth when Threnody interjected.
"You're the Branden Rose, aren't you?" she asked, with a look of profound, barely contained excitement. Rossamund had never seen her look quite so enthusiastic-it was odd.
"My name precedes me, I see," said Europe, a subtle smirk fluttering at the corner of lip and eye.
"And you really do know him?" Threnody glanced at Rossamund.
"Aye-" he began.
"Indeed!" Europe replied civilly. "We are old wayfaring chums, are we not, little man? We have been on many an adventure already."
"I am Lady Threnody of Herbroulesse," the girl lighter began, barely waiting for an answer, "daughter of the Lady Vey, August of the Right of the Pacific Dove," finishing with affected gravity as she tried not to betray her eagerness.
A hint of disdain fluttered across Europe's face. "I heard rumor that the Marchioness Vey had issue by some clandestine means, and here breathes the proof. Might I say you are dressed peculiarly for a calendar?"
Threnody looked down at her gorgeous, if slightly travel-ruffled clothes. "Oh, I'm not a calendar anymore. I'm a full lamplighter now."
Europe's smile was patient, polite. "Good for you, my dear. So I now know something of you and you already know something of me and we are all met. How lovely." Europe did not look as if she thought it lovely at all, but rather boring. "Come! Time for easy chairs and warm meals."
They were let through a heavy door by a broad-set gater with thick mustachios wearing a black-felt liripipium, its long peak almost trailing in the straw-rubbish. As Europe and her two guests approached, he opened the way and took them along an arched, brick-lined tunnel that must have been burrowed right under the Wormway. At the other side their guide hammered upon another door, crying, "Ad aspertum! The Branden Rose and two companions," to those beyond. They were admitted through a block-room and climbed slate steps to a broad wood-paneled vestibule of the wayhouse proper.
Footmen in plush asked for their names, took baggage and stowed weapons in an armory-stand to be retrieved on call. This was a very fine establishment indeed. Europe handed over the satchel. "Put it in the cold room for me: I will be requiring it tomorrow to claim my prize."
A horse-faced woman clad in a style of dress that Rossamund had never seen before, made of heavy velvet with broad hanging sleeves and a pretty white palisade cap, rustled over to greet them. She paid studied respect to Europe and politely introduced herself to the two young lamplighters as the enrica d'ama. " 'Allo, young travelers," she said in a sweet voice and a delicate southern accent, "I am Madam Oubliette, the proud owner of this fine 'ouse. If you are seeking any service you must call on me or my man Parleferte." She indicated a gaunt, harassed-looking steward. "Any time of sunup or moon-down. Now please, 'ave your ease in the Saloon."
A footman announced them over the moderate hubbub of other conversation. "Her Grace, the Branden Rose, Europa of Fontrevault, Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes; the Lady Threnody of Herbroulesse and a guest!" was the ringing cry, to which few of their fellow patrons paid any attention.
"Yes, yes," Europe huffed. "Get on and show us our place, man!"
"How do you feel, guest, on being just a guest?" Threnody gibed Rossamund quietly. "Shall I call you guest from now onward?"
Rossamund did not acknowledge her.
Before him was a great hexagonal space with balconies, boxes and claustral-booths rising on every side for three whole floors-the privatrium, each reached by a confusion of stairs and walks.The radiating beams of the lofty ceiling were carved with forms of intertwined cats in various attitudes of hunt or play. Every beam met in the middle and from this zenith hung a collection of great-lamps gathered together like some bizarre chandelier. Beneath this, in the middle of the space surrounded by the privatrium, was a raised oval stage hemmed in by a semicircular tapery-counter at one end where drinks were being pulled or poured. About the tapery were tables and chairs and people sitting at them in a variety of attitudes: animated, upright, slouched, slumped, even leaning dangerously. Rossamund was so amazed by it all he stumbled on his own feet more than once before the three were settled in a second-story claustra-a somewhat private stall of leather high-backed benches around a square table.
"The Brisking Cat," Europe declared grandly as they sat. "Wayhouse, knavery and my current abode."
The Saloon was wall to wall with pugnators and their hangers-on, coming, going and ordering about the staff with high-handed carelessness. Rossamund watched the gallimaufry of teratologists in wide-eyed wonder. Indiscriminate monster-killers written about in public print or gossiped about in civic rumor, a fabulous collection like the pages of a pamphlet come to life. Seeing his fascination, Europe began to name some of them.
"There are the Boanerges-the 'Sons of Thunder,' " she explained, watching three grim-looking fellows huddled together in grim conversation, periodically glancing suspiciously over their shoulders. "A competent band, each one a fellow astrapecrith, though none too bright."
"And that is the Knave of Diamonds," said Threnody, keen to show her worldliness. Rossamund looked and saw a large man pass below. He wore a "crown" of tall spiked reeds upon his head; upon his body a heavy-gaulded smock or lambrequin of dirty white with its single, large red diamond on the front; and upon his fierce face a large deep blue diamond spoor.
A solitary calendar from a different clave than Threnody's walked across the Saloon floor and took a booth across the other side. She was wearing a bossock of prus and sable checks and her face was striped like that of a grazing animal from far beyond the Marrow. She wore a dandicomb of long, elegant horns that her claustra was fortunately high enough to contain.
Threnody watched her closely. "She need not have come," the girl huffed with the strains of territorial jealousy. "The Right has these troubles in hand."
"Who is she?" Rossamund said so softly he barely spoke at all.
"She's a caladine," Europe answered.
"Entering our diet without a by-your-leave," the girl lighter added icily. "I doubt she has presented herself to Mother. Saphine is her name. She is from the Maids of Malady."
"Truly?" said Europe. "Your surgeon had perhaps best watch himself."
"Miss Europe?"
"I have the understanding that these Maids of Malady have allied themselves with the Soratche. Maybe they lend their help to the Soratche, and Saphine is coming to investigate that Swill fellow. Wheels inside wheels, and all that."
Rossamund hoped this was true. He stared at the caladine until she felt the scrutiny and turned to look at him. Flushing, the young lighter looked away quickly and found a teratologist he knew by sight. He had seen etchings of her in the more sensational pamphlets. Epitome Bile was her name, a woman written of as a myth: lupine and pitiless and astoundingly daring.Yet here she was, a woman as real as his own hand, all in glossy black soe, white-faced with staring, black-rimmed eyes and oddly cropped black hair.
Europe showed clear distaste. "Cruel and heartless," she warned. "Stay well clear of her."
Aye, Rossamund wondered, but has she ever sparked a child in the head?
Epitome Bile looked up, caught Europe's cold eye and returned it, giving a slow, taunting curtsy. A wicked smile flitted across the strange woman's mien. The two teratological women kept each other fixed with stares of mutual loathing, until Epitome Bile walked out of the common room, sly, malevolent amusement never leaving her face.
Rossamund felt a shiver of dismay. He hoped never to cross her path more closely.
Europe clucked her tongue quietly and looked elsewhere. "There you have the Three Brave Brothers," she said, pointing with her chin to a group of men below them (just returned perhaps from the course), turning her guests' attention to other things. "They actually number four, are not related to each other… and are not particularly brave, either." Rossamund, who had read of these Brave Brothers, was stunned to see walking before him their infamous scourge, Sourdoor, in his swathes of black lour-proofed velvet.