fodicar(s) (noun) also lantern-crook, lamp- or lantern-switch, poke-pole or just poke; the instrument of the lamplighter, a long iron pole with a perpendicular crank-hook protruding from one end, used to activate the seltzer lamps that illuminate many of the Empire's important roads. The pike-head allows the fodicar to be employed as a weapon-a kind of halberd-to fend off man and monster alike. FROM the little Rossamund knew of these things, lamplighters rarely, if ever, employed women as lampsmen. As servants, as cothouse clerks, or even as soldiers maybe, but never a lighter.
Lamplighter-Sergeant Grindrod puffed his cheeks, his jaw jutting stubbornly. "Her?" Then he laughed-a loud, foolish noise in the mourning-quiet after the attack. "She near brought us all to ruin. She'll be lucky I don't clap her in the pillory for impeding the goodly duties of His Rightful Emperor's servants!"
Threnody stood, clench-fisted. "I am a peer, you lowborn toadlet, of rank so far above yours, you'll be lucky I don't claim quo gratia and have you clapped in irons yourself, you sot-headed dottard!"
Rossamund tried to pull his neck into his stock as a turtle might.
His fellow lighters gathered near, awestruck.
The lamplighter-sergeant was agog. "Lowborn? Sot-headed? Quo gratia?" Grindrod's red face became an apoplectic purple. "I'm not the want-wit who frissioned my watch to a daze in the middle of a bogle attack! They wasted the surgeon's fees on ye, poppet!"
Threnody let out a tight, wordless yell, both her hands clutching her temple.
Rossamund's head, his entire gall, revolted, and his sense of up and down collided. He staggered and fell, joining Grindrod, the lampsmen, the prentices and even the pistoleer writhing in the dirt.
"Enough!" cried Dolours, and the wayward frission ceased. The bane was the only one standing, her left hand to her temple, her right stretched over the now prone Threnody. She had witted the girl, striven one of her own. "Enough," she whispered again. Looking deeply unwell, she reached a conciliatory hand to Grindrod regardless, an offer of help.
"I can get to me feet meself, madam," he seethed, tottering dazedly as he proved his words.
As Rossamund and his fellows unsteadily regained their feet, Dolours sighed. "That 'poppet,' Sergeant, is the daughter of our august and a marchioness-in-waiting in her own right: you'd do well to pay your due respect."