The young lighter's thoughts reeled, and he blinked in dismay at the surgeon's accusations.
"More so," Swill pursued, "if what the august's daughter says is true, then this one's masters have conspired with it to hide its nature-a foul and deplorable act of outramour as has ever been documented!"
Fransitart and Craumpalin looked hard at the surgeon and refused to be cowed.
The Master-of-Clerks stared squarely at Rossamund, a conquering glimmer in the depths of the man's studied gaze. "What do you have to say for this, Lampsman 3rd Class?"
Rossamund felt the blood leave his face and sweat prickle on his brow and neck. He could not let these puzzle-headed fallacies pass unchallenged. But what could he say to such outlandish poppycockery?
"Tell me, surgeon," Sicus asked firmly, "how by the remotest here and vere do you propose to substantiate such a bizarre accusation? This young lighter as a sedorner is a charge I am prepared to hear out, but a monster who looks like a person! This is a very long line you plumb, sir. How do you intend to substantiate this obscure conjecturing?"
Swill balked, momentarily stumped, but rallied, a solution clearly blossoming in his thoughts. "If you would but indulge me just a little further, we could but take a little of this-this one's blood; someone could be marked, and in a fortnight or so the proof would be there. Only a monster's blood will make a mark on a person if pricked into the skin."
Threnody gasped.
Sicus and Whympre and his staff were thunderstruck, and the Lady Vey too.
"I'll not let ye cut 'im!" Fransitart cried, half standing but held back by Craumpalin.
Europe still did not move or comment, and the black-eyed wit kept his heavy-lidded scrutiny ever fixed on her.
To the universal surprise of the room, it was Rossamund who spoke in Swill's support. "Take my blood," he said firmly, not quite believing what was coming out of his own mouth.Yet he was resolute. "How else can I show that this… that Mister Swill is wrong?"
"How else indeed? Bravely said, young fellow!" Swill enthused. "And to make it a truly impartial test, it would be best for one member each of the interested parties to be marked. In that way none can accuse the other of fabricating a result."
"This is most irregular, surgeon," Secretary Sicus cautioned.
"A serious and far-fetched charge has been laid at this young lighter, sirs," the Lady Vey interrupted. "I say let a little blood be taken from him and the poor boy's innocence and heritage be established."
"As you wish it, m'lady." Sicus nodded and made a dignified bow.
This sealed it.
Swill chose himself to represent the Empire and the lighters. Fransitart quickly offered himself on Rossamund's behalf.
A small dish, a small bottle, a guillion and an orbis were called for.
Grimacing, Rossamund held out a finger, profoundly aware of the trust he was suddenly placing in a man he considered the blackest of all black habilists.
From the small bottle, Swill dabbed the young lighter's fingertip with a thin, straw-yellow fluid, then dipped the guillion-tip in the same.
"This is libermane," he explained to the room. "To make the sanguine humours flow easy."
The surgeon deftly punctured Rossamund's fingertip with the guillion and more blood than Rossamund expected began to drip out.
Feeling stupidly giddy, the young prentice let many drops of his blood splicker into the dish to form a little puddlet there.
"That will be sufficient," Swill said when a coin-sized puddle of it had collected in the dish. With professional regard, he automatically passed Rossamund a pledget to stanch the tiny wound.
"Hark ye, clever-cogs! I shall go first," Fransitart insisted, looking very much as if he wanted to pound the surgeon to stuff. With a look of deep revulsion he removed his wide-collared day-coat and, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, presented the inside of his wrist. "Right there'll do fine, ye bookish blackguard," he growled malignantly at Swill.
The surgeon swallowed nervously. "As you wish, Jack tar," he answered and, taking up the orbis, dipped the guillion in Rossamund's blood and began to tap away on the old dormitory master's blotched skin. Gripping the pledget to his finger, Rossamund could not watch, and he looked up at the great antlers of the Herdebog Trought splayed above them. Even in these strange circumstances he still felt revulsion at the tap-tap-tapping of orbis on needle.
Swill seemed to have barely made a start when Europe stirred. She stood and stepped directly to Rossamund.
The black-eyed wit straightened, looking ready to fight.
Distracted by Europe's action, the surgeon hesitated then stopped his tapping.
Standing by the young lighter's side, Europe looked with serene confidence at the powerful men gathered before her. "This has all been greatly diverting," she said with a tone of mild amusement, "but I must now say, gentlemen and strigs, that it is time Rossamund and I were going. His tenure with the lighters has, I think it is safe to say, come to an end." She touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Come along, Rossamund."
"Stay where you are, Lampsman!" The Master-of-Clerks stood in turn.
Rossamund hesitated out of martial habit.
"You cannot take him, madam," Whympre contradicted disdainfully. "This is a court-martial of our Most Just Emperor, trying one of the Emperor's own servants, and we," he said, turning a haughty glance to the Imperial Secretary sitting officiously by, "we shall deal with him according to our own right rule."
"Don't come at me with that sneer in your nostrils, sir!" Europe warned. "You may have your dour Haacobin friend there"-she nodded to the Imperial Secretary-"but he is still just a clerk-whomever he might know, and you and he are together beneath me by more degrees than you have fingers or toes collected."
The Imperial Secretary began to rise, declaiming loudly, "You flagitious shrew! How dare you interrupt an Imperial proceeding while-"
"You, Master Secretary, tread dangerous turfs!" Europe's eyes went wide in indignation. "You are addressing Europa, Duchess-in-waiting of Naimes, Peer of the Haacobin Empire, Marchess of the Vewe, shareward of the Soutland states, descendant of Euodice-speardame of the immortal Idaho, and of Eutyche her granddaughter-spurn to Dido, and the Branden Rose, terror to man and nicker alike, and I will dare, sir, and I do!"
The Imperial Secretary opened his mouth to remonstrate, but Europe spoke him down. "If that will not silence you, impudent wretch, then I say simply QGU and now the matter is done!"
QGU? Rossamund stared. Quo gratia! Europe was using her ancient right as a peer to overrule any court. She was using it for him…
The Lady Vey glowered at the fulgar scornfully.
The black-eyed wit took a step forward, but was stopped by a brusque wave of Secretary Sicus' hand.
"Good day to you, Master Secretary," she concluded. "You are at perfect liberty to go tell of my wielding of this venerable privilege to your cunning masters and all your fellow glaucologs up in Clementine, babbling away and filling the world with words; it will do you little good. For if it is a trading of status and influence you seek, I come ready prepared."
To this not even the Imperial Secretary had a fit or contrary answer.
"Come, Rossamund, we go." The fulgar took him by the hand.
Rossamund glanced quickly at the thunderstruck Board and fumbled the chair out from the table, tripping on one of the legs in his haste. Without a word needing to be said, Fransitart took a pledget from the table, rolled down his sleeve, put his day-coat back on, and he and Craumpalin followed after. The rest of the room were too stunned to act. Heading not too briskly down the passages of the manse-far be it for Europe to hurry-Craumpalin handed Fransitart a handkerchief to wrap the puncting-wound upon his wrist.