Rossamund shrugged.
Fortunately the incident quickly receded into the routine. Not more than two days later he was able to enter a room without there being that strange, deliberate silence. It was not completely forgotten, however, for it earned Rossamund a new name: "The Great Harold" they began to call him, or "Master Haroldus," after the hero of the Battle of the Gates. Not even in the face of the awe of the prentices when he killed the gudgeon had Rossamund ever felt so complimented. He had been given a new name-a proper military nickname-and the quiet, hidden joy of it had him smiling himself to sleep for the rest of the week.
"I thought Harold was a skold," was all Threnody said in quibble one breakfast.
"Aye, he was," Aubergene answered her, from across the bench, "but he was a dead-mighty one."
Thankfully, she did not say any more to spoil Rossamund's delight, nor did she venture another word about the barrel or his Exstinker bandage. Proving to have suffered no permanent discomfort from his catching feat, Rossamund was soon employed in his very first excursion away from the cothouse. On the opening day of the second week he was sent with Poesides, Aubergene and Lightbody to carry stores to a poor old eeker-woman-an exile who had fled across the Ichormeer from somewhere east. Rossamund was astounded that lighters would seek to aid one of the under class, a reject of her own society and unwanted in the Empire as well.
"Ah! Master Haroldus has come to lend us his mighty hands!" Poesides said in kindly jest as they readied to leave.
The other lighters smiled warmly in response as Rossamund ducked his head to hide his delight.
The necessary stores-foodstuffs, clothing, repellents, a small quantity of black powder and balls-were lifted onto their backs and they departed,Whelpmoon observing them blearily as they filed out the heavy front door and down the narrow steps. Cold was the morning, its soft breath stinging cheeks, the eastern horizon orange-pink with the sun's rising.
"Where are we going to?" Rossamund asked Aubergene quietly as they crossed the road and stood on its northern verge.
The lighter adjusted his grip on the long-rifle he bore. "There's a small seigh out north near the banks of the Frugal where an old dame lives. Mama Lieger is her name. The bee's buzz is that she likes to talk to the bogles and that's why she lives far out here-fled from Worms to escape accusing tongues."
"Aye, and now we're the sorry sods who 'ave to do 'er deliveries," interjected Lightbody. "I've 'eard it she was some wild strig-woman when she was younger, coming from one of them irritable troupes of wild folk from the Geikelund out back of Worms."
"Didn't the folks where she's from try to hang her?" Rossamund had a vision of a terrible destructress with flashing blades and flying hair having monsters around for supper.
"I reckon she must have got away afore they could." Aubergene smiled.
Rossamund shifted the uncomfortable load and stared a little suspiciously at the uneasy threwd that brooded out beyond the road-edge. "Why doesn't she have Squarmis the costerman do the delivering?"
" 'Cause that filthy salt-horse won't take things to the likes of her," answered Poesides, "and she could ne'er afford him to if ever he did. No, lad, it is our honor to take these supplies to her. She bain't the only eeker to get our help: it's the lighters' way out here, to succor all kinds in need without fault-findin'." He gave an acerbic sideways look at Lightbody.
"But isn't she a sedorner?" Rossamund pressed, feeling a glimmer of hope. "I thought lighters would have said all sedorners were bad folk and done them in somehow."
"A lamp's worth is proved by its color, lad." The under-sergeant gave him a curious look. "Mama Lieger has done good for us, so we do for her benefit as she has done for ours… and maybe-if she does hold conversationals with the local hobs-she might put in a good word for us with them. But just have yer intellectuals about ye, else she'll have ye believing that some monsters are not so bad after all."
"Aye… " Aubergene muttered, "though some might agree with her on that one."
Almost stumbling down the side of the highroad, Rossamund looked in surprise at the lampsman, a dawning of respect rising in his bosom.
"Stopper that talk, Lampsman!" Poesides barked. "Her saying such things is one bend of a crook, but ye spratting on so is a whole other. I don't want to have to leave ye with the old gel when we get to her house."
Aubergene ducked his head. "Aye, Under-Sergeant," he murmured.
Poesides fixed Rossamund with a commanding eye. "We're all about quiet when walking off the road, so silence them questions for now."
The youngest lighter obeyed and said naught as the under-sergeant traveled an unmarked path through the thick lanes and thickets of thistle and cold-stunted olive and tea trees. In single file the three followed after, walking as carefully they could without going too slow. The shaley soil clinked softly as their boots broke the damp, fog-dampened surface, to reveal the earth beneath still dry and dusty. This was indeed a parched place, yet life still flourished, making the most of what little moisture it gleaned from the damp southern airs.
Always searching left and right, all four kept eyes and ears sharp for signs of monsters. Tiny birds chased on either side of them, flitting rapidly through the thick twine of thorny, twiggy branches, rarely showing themselves but for a flash of bright sky blue or fiery, black-speckled red. Rossamund wanted to stop, to be still for a time and breathe in the woody smells and quietly observe the nervous flutterers, but on they marched, pausing only for a brief breather and a suck of small beer.
Two miles out from the Wormway the difficult country opened out a little and began to gently decline, a broad view of the Frugal vale before them, gray, thorny, patched with dark spinneys of squat, parched trees. Aubergene and Lightbody moved to walk on either side of Poesides. Keen to prove himself a worthy, savvy lighter Rossamund did the same, stepping straight into a spider's web strung between two man-high thistles and still glistening with dew in the advancing morning.
"Ack!" he spluttered and scrabbled at the stickiness on his face, terrified some little crawler might be about to sink fangs into his nose or crawl and nest in his hair.
"Hold your crook in front of your face," Aubergene offered in a hush, clasping his long-rifle vertically in front of him in example. "Catches the webs and keeps your dial safe of them."
There was not a glimpse or hint of a single monster the whole way, yet the land still heeded them and knew they walked where men seldom did or should. Choughs scooted away with a flash of their white tail feathers at the lighters' advance through the cold land, looping low through the stunted swamp oaks, letting out their clear calls: a single note bright yet mournful, ringing across the flats. As the day-orb reached the height of its meridian Rossamund spied a high-house-a seigh-very much as its those eeker-houses he saw from the Gainway down to High Vesting. This one looked older, though-very much as if it belonged here, grown somehow rather than built by human action; a sagging pile hidden behind a patch of crooked, fragrant swamp oaks. Its too-tall chimneys looked near ready to topple; its roof was entirely submerged in yellow lichens; weedy straw grew from every crevice in the lower footings. In this place the threwd was different somehow, so gentle and insinuating that Rossamund hardly perceived it; the watchfulness was not so hostile-indeed, it was almost welcoming. Rossamund might have liked to stay here. He looked pensively up at the high-house.
There was no stair to the gray-weathered door nearly twenty feet above.
Poesides took Rossamund's fodicar from him. "We really must get ye a right lengthened crook," he muttered. Hefting it up, the under-sergeant deftly hooked a cloth-covered chain hanging well above their heads from the wall by the door. He gave it a series of deliberate tugs and waited.