With a great, weird, leaping exultation he realized he was staring straight at Fransitart and Craumpalin, his old masters, the former stiff and steady, the latter fidgety and trying not to be. They had come, as they said, all the way from Boschenberg, even though it was the worst time for traveling. It was so utterly strange to see them there, his two worlds-old and new-overlapping. Rossamund was struck dumb.
On seeing him, Craumpalin made to hurry down to greet him, yet was halted by a subtle hand of Fransitart's.
"Ah-ha, Lampsman Bookchild!" the Master-of-Clerks almost cried in disingenuous eagerness, clearly making a kindly show of it for Rossamund's old masters. "You have visitors, see: your old wardens come to offer you succor in these darkest of days."
Rossamund blinked at the man. "Thank you, sir," he managed.
"Hullo there, lad," said Master Fransitart huskily, his hard face made soft by the dampness in his soulful eyes. Rossamund realized he had near forgotten the once-so-familiar face. "We were about on our ways to Wormstool but heard ye'd returned unexpected. We understand troubles are athwart yer hawse."
Nearly bursting into tears, Rossamund wrestled with the knot in his throat. "H-Hallo, Master Fransitart. Hallo, Master Craumpalin."
" 'Ello, my boy." The old dispensurist grinned through his white beard.
"I have allowed them to join with you in the prentices' mess hall for a light supper before douse-lanterns." The Master-of-Clerks did a brilliant simulation of the kindly host.
Mercy of mercies, Podious Whympre let them leave promptly, and the promise of a late meal was actually honored. Left alone in his tiny accommodation, the reunited finally gave expression to truer feelings as Rossamund threw himself into Fransitart's arms. He buried his face in the rough weave and old, unique scent of his dormitory master's cheap proofing. The mildly startled ex-mariner cooed, "There, there, me hearty" several times till the young lighter loosened his hold.
Craumpalin fussed and exclaimed, "Look at thee! All bones like a mouse in a miser's kitchen. What, don't they feed thee, lad?"
"Why are you here so soon?" Rossamund's voice wobbled. "Your letter said you would not be here till… till…"
"Till now, lad," Fransitart said gently. "And we're actually late. It took some organizin', but finally there was naught else for us to stay for, no marine society, no-no children to look after with 'em all now safe at other places…"
"And no Madam to employ us neither," Craumpalin added solemnly.
Rossamund did not know what to say about Madam Opera. There had been little warmth between them. Still, she had done more than many ever would in the aid of the "undeserving," even if her labors lacked motherly sentiments.
"A fine woman," the dispensurist murmured. "Not the friendliest, but fine an' upstandin'!" He raised a mug in silent salute.
Fransitart did the same, and they bumped mugs together.
"And now we're loose-footed." Craumpalin chuckled stoutly. "Just like afore all this settling down to care for wee babbies. Roll on them old days!" He looked meaningfully to Fransitart, and Rossamund became aware of a great weight of history between the two. Here, when he thought them so very familiar, they were revealing parts of themselves to which he was a stranger.
"Old days indeed." Fransitart frowned. "And thankee to yer Marshal fellow for our ales!"
"Don't be tricked by that trickster, Master Fransitart," Rossamund warned. "He is the most cunning basket of them all."
His two old masters blinked at him in surprise.
"I do believe the lad's filling out his baldric nicely, Frans." Craumpalin winked. "Don't be troublin' thyself, Rossamund, we know hay from straw; caught sight o' his colors right quick, di'n we, Frans?"
"That we did, Pin-a regular lamb-clad wolf is he."
"Aye aye, enough to make thy meat crawl," the old dispensurist agreed. He looked sourly at the food before them. "Blight and blast me, these wittles are uncommon bland!"
Rossamund did not care how tasteless or unsatisfactory the food was, he was all a-joy to be safe with his masters.Yet while they ate together and the first enthusiasm receded a little, he became aware of an unfamiliar awkwardness.
Determined to enjoy their company, Rossamund launched into the most full and hearty recounting of his life since leaving Madam Opera's. Describing the fight with the rever-man, he made direct connection with Swill, expressing his suspicions as part of the tale. The sorrow of the ruination of Wormstool flooded out like relief. He even talked a little of Freckle too; of the Hogshead and the wood near Wormstool; of the sparrows and Cinnamon, and especially of Europe and of Numps. His masters listened to it all in utter silence, a sign of respect, till he was done. It felt so good to have out with the whole tale, start to end and all the in betweens. When he had finished, a great weight had lifted from his shoulders.
"This Miss Europe lassie sounds like an uncommon remarkable woman," Craumpalin enthused. "I remember her mentioned in thy letters."
"I was alarmed to hear ye conjecturin' about yer surgeon bein' a dastardly, naught-good massacar!" said Fransitart.
"Oh, aye, Master Fransitart! And that Podious Whympre fellow is right in it with him!"
"What's the place comin' to?" Craumpalin growled. "Why ain't he in hand with the authorities then?"
"Doctor Crispus knows, and Mister Sebastipole and I reckon the old Lamplighter-Marshal does too, but there is nothing any of them think they can do about it." Rossamund spoke quickly in his frustration. "About the only one who could do something is Miss Europe, and she says let them choke on their own rope."
"Always the way with them lahzars." Fransitart shook his head. "Crotchety and crosswards. Still, her notion has wisdom."
"What have we sent the lad into, Frans?" Craumpalin exclaimed. "We've got to get thee away from 'ere, Rossamund!"
"And I would go with you, Master Pin, but that I made an oath to serve as a lighter and I've been paid the Billion."
"Aye, right ye are, Rossamund." Fransitart smiled his approbation. "We raised ye 'onorable and that way ye should stay. It's a difficult task to stay faithful beyond endurance. We'll figure a loose for this impossible-seemin' knot yet."
"Aye aye!" Craumpalin added. "Might be possible to get thee an acquittance."
"An acquittance, Master Craumpalin?"
"Aye, an all-encompassing, all-official release from bound service. Prodigious handy."
Fransitart nodded. In a firm hush he said, "And did I hear ye right when ye spoke of that Freckle fellow that 'e's a bogle?"
Rossamund felt a guilty leap in his belly. "Aye, he's… he's a-a glamgorn."
"Thee what?" Craumpalin exclaimed, spitting some ale.
"He helped me-" he added quickly, "more than once."
"Do others know ye 'ave been talkin' with this wee thing?" asked Fransitart. "To be talkin' civil with a bogle is a sedorning offense, Rossamund. They can gibbet ye for that! I know we taught ye to use yer own intellectuals, but speakin' with a nasty bain't quite where I thought ye'd take me advice."
"Sorry, Master Fransitart," Rossamund squeaked.
"Once said is done," the master said, sighing deeply. "Whatever happens to ye from here on, lad, Master Pin and I'll be right by ye."
"Too right!" agreed Craumpalin.
They continued their meal, Rossamund losing his appetite to worry.
"Master Fransitart? Master Craumpalin?"
"Aye, lad," the two said together.