graille(s) tools of a punctographist. A marker needs four particular utensils to make a cruorpunxis upon the skin: the guillion-also called an acuse or zechnennadel-the needle dipped in cruor and then pricked into the skin; the orbis-in full, orbis malleus, a disc-headed mallet with which the guillion is tapped to puncture the skin and leave a mark; the sprither-the device used to extract the blood from a monster in the first place; the bruicle-the container in which cruor is kept till needed and into which the guillion is dipped every twenty taps or so to refresh the blood. Other tools necessary to a punctographist are a notebook and stylus to take a likeness of the fallen monster's face (either by description or by the presence of a corpse-or the head at least). From this the design of the mark is then figured, usually in consultation with the "markee." THAT night after mains the prentices gleefully attended the evenstalls puncting, happy to have something to celebrate.Waiting for the officers and other senior ranks to enter before them, the lantern-sticks formed up along the low fence that hedged the Dead Patch, where the corpses of the first common lighters and pediteers had been buried into the very foundations, feetfirst to conserve room. There they waited dutifully as the higher ranked-dazzling in the polish of their uniforms-entered the hall.The Dead Patch always made Rossamund fretful; he associated graveyards with the dark trades and, after his experience in the hold of the Hogshead, with rever-men too. It was just as well the Dead Patch was properly lit, for this helped a little with the prickling terrors that crept under his scalp and down his neck. He shivered at thoughts of boat-holds and foul things snatching from the dark.
"Be still!" Threnody complained alongside him.
"Be still yourself," Rossamund spat back, under breath, with a rapid glance in Grindrod's direction. Despite himself, Rossamund was growing weary of Threnody's fractious manners. On his other side he felt Wrangle shift minutely and dart a worried, warning look at them both.
Threnody stared hard at him from the corner of her eye. "What's your trouble, lamp boy? Missing your old nursery maid?"
"Shh!" Onion Mole hissed over his shoulder.
"Shh yourself, dolt," she hissed in turn.
There was never any talking when the prentices were in line, but if Rossamund did not say something she might go on and on at him. "Clamp it,Threnody, or we'll all get pots-and-pans! For you prenticing might be just to get away from your mother, but for me it's my life."
Threnody went pale and did not say another word.
Rossamund was grateful when he and his fellows were finally ordered inside, making their solemn way over the ledger-stones of long past heroes that paved the path to the Hall of Pageants.
Within was a small oblong amphitheater. On three sides tiered stalls of seats rose about a rectangular floor. Displayed grandly at the farther end of the amphitheater were the mighty antlers of the Herdebog Trought, each one lustrous black and as long as two tall men lying end-on-end. The monstrous trophy had been stood upright in a makeshift frame, the violent curves of both antlers spreading out over the stalls from one side of the hall to the other. Removed from the Trought's corpse with sectitheres, the horns had required a whole platoon of peoneers to bring them into the hall. Rossamund had faced the Trought upon the road and seen its great size firsthand, but the dimensions of its antlers astounded him.The rancid musk of the monster was in them, tainting the air thickly, and he could see the damage from Threnody's or Sebastipole's shooting: an obvious pale gouge in the glossy black velvet. The strong smell brought up unwelcome confusions. He wondered sadly how long the creature had walked the world before the ambitions of men had interrupted its ancient existence.
Before the antlers were two chairs and a small desk arrayed with odd-looking tools.
The Hall of Pageants was filled to standing room, everyone decked in their best and cleanest. The greater ranks sat in the lowest, most padded and plush pews. At the very back on the highest, farthest, least comfortable benches, the prentices took their place. Troubardiers stood along the wall partly silhouetted against the long, thin windows that showed the last blood-orange glow of sunset against a turbid cloud bank rolling north in a close, blue sky.
"Stand fast!" came the cry, and the room stood to attention, hats off indoors and respectfully in hand. The Lamplighter-Marshal and the Master-of-Clerks and all those of eminence filed from some hidden ingress and took their easy seats in the frontmost rows. They sat and the rest of the room followed. The baritone buzz of quiet eagerness resumed till two men stepped on to the floor and strode conspicuously to the chairs.
Quiet reigned again.
Bemused, Rossamund knew the first man to be Nullifus Drawk, skold and punctographist.The other was Sebastipole.
Both men bowed to the Lamplighter-Marshal and the senior officers.
Rossamund could not imagine the leer and lamplighter's agent as the stripe of person who would actually want a monster-blood tattoo. It shocked him to see Sebastipole standing before his comrades calmly rolling up his shirt's white sleeve, waiting to be marked. Rossamund thought he glimpsed at least one other cruorpunxis showing from under the rolled cloth.
As Sebastipole sat, Nullifus Drawk addressed the room, crying, "Officers, lighters, foot soldiers, clerks! It has been decided that Josclin and Sebastipole do share the distinction of slaying the mighty Herdebog Trought, that the falseman's aim did play its part as much as the scourge's potives.Yet as our brother Josclin is lying broken but well mending in the infirmary, it will be, as you can see, our goodly agent Sebastipole who will gain his prize tonight."
Nullifus Drawk took up a guillion needle and a small disc-headed orbis. Dipping the point of the guillion into a beaker of the Trought's cruor, he referred to a small notebook that lay open on the table and found his place on Sebastipole's bare arm. There he began to gently yet rapidly strike the broad, blunt end of the needle, tap tap tap. The hall was profoundly silent as each observer savored the marking of yet another victory over the monstrous foe.
Fixated yet appalled, Rossamund was convinced that Sebastipole was not enjoying this spectacle. He was certain that, as when he put on his sthenicon, the leer found the puncting distasteful. Yet truly, disappointingly, Rossamund knew it could not be so. "Like chasing after Phoebe," Verline would have said-wishing after impossible things: a leer's job was to seek, to find and, inevitably, to join in the killing of monsters. Could he be what Rossamund considered a good man and still do this? Could a man be wrong for doing what he thought was right?
Threnody showed sympathy neither for the monster nor the men. By his other side his six watch-mates gingered their bandages beneath their coats, impatient for the punxis to be healed and tattoos ready to show away.
Tap tap tap. Drawk hammered lightly with his guillion, dipping frequently into the cruor dabbing at the stippled place on Sebastipole's arm with thick pledgets. The leer sat stiff and still, never flinching. For a week or two the mark would be invisible other than a suppurating scab, which would finally slough off and reveal the craftily formed image. And so they all watched till the honor was done, then gave a rousing cheer.