combinades hand arms that are a clever combination of melee weapon and firelock.The firing mechanism on most combinades is an improved wheel lock, being more sturdy than a flintlock, and able to take the jars that come when the weapon is used to strike a foe. Added to this, the lock mechanism, trigger and hammer are usually protected by gathered bands of metal, a basket much like those protecting the hilts of many foreign swords. When edges and bullets are treated with gringollsis, combinades become very effective therimoirs (monster-killing tools). ON the second day Rossamund's life as a lamplighter started in full. Now he was properly arrived in this wild place, he was careful to replenish his bandage with the recent-made Exstinker, dawdling with his preparations until the other lighters had gone to breakfast. Obeying instructions, he ventured out fully harnessed, a necessary precaution this close to the monsters' realm. He quickly discovered the day-watch consisted of little more than rounds of chores, beginning-navylike-with the scrubbing of all the floors, soap-stoning and swabbing and flogging every story of the tower as if they were the decks of a ram.
Nothing more was said about the incident with the dogs, though the young lighter was not required to muck and feed them anymore. Instead he and Threnody helped in the kitchens or in the Works-as the third floor from the entrance was named, carrying and fetching for Onesimus Grumely, the house-tinker and sometime proofener, or tending the fortlet's bright-limns and lanterns with Mister Splinteazle, Seltzerman 2nd Class.Yet Rossamund soon discovered his favorite task was to join sentries, watching through the loopholes in the walls or from the observation benches upon the roof. Dubbed the Fighting Top, it was a place he quickly decided was the best in the whole cothouse. From there, high and safe, he could marvel at the whole flatland of the Frugelle with little interruption and still be considered working.
Threnody did not share his enthusiasm for the view. "This is an ugly place," she declaimed darkly as they watched with Theudas after middens. "All I can see is a hundred nooks for bugaboos to flourish."
Even as she spoke there came a single flash of lightning far away north, leaping from the flat cover of cloud straight to the earth. A second distant bolt had Theudas ducking.
"What, by my aching bowels, was that?" the lampsman exclaimed.
The peal of thunder took a long time to reach them, and by then it was only a sullen grumble.
"Maybe Europe has found her rever-man!" Rossamund stared in the direction of the strike, heart thumping with fright.
"Maybe," replied Threnody, her tone saying, Who cares!
Threnody's sour misgivings and the regularity of lamplighting life soon dulled the novelty of a new location. A day's beginning was marked by the usual rattle of drums and its end by the cry "A lamp! A lamp to light your path!" declaring the arrival of the Haltmire lighters-stern, stiff fellows that the Stoolers called "Limpers." Then, as at Winstermill, was a little time for each day-watchman to do as he pleased before douse-lanterns. However, Rossamund found the sameness of each day-as at Winstermill-a real and surprising comfort; for all their overfamiliarity, the routines were powerfully settling.
Different from the manse, however, were Domesdays. Out here they were not free of labor; indeed the lantern-watch had no rest at all. It was a day of reduced work, but House-Major Grystle was of the opinion that idle hands make waste, and the vigil was a make-and-mend day where clothes were patched and proofing was mended.
Yet in between light Domesday duties and any spare moment of an evening, the Stoolers enjoyed what Rossamund soon considered his favorite pastime: sitting in the mess to play at checkers and the card games of lesquin and pirouette. They conducted themselves with far better grace and mirth than the prentices and, though the stakes were high, there was no bickering on the shuffle or squabbling over who could bet what or when. At pirouette-where the winning hand had the losing hand do a silly dance-they went easy on Rossamund, letting him learn; but Threnody they needed to give no such grace. She quickly showed herself a match for all, even Mister Harlock, the sergeant-master, who proved shrewdly adept at outwitting most of his billet-mates. Young Theudas, however, was far too sharp and beat all with great whoops! of victory as he mercilessly had everyone-even Rossamund-hopping one dance or another as they lost the round.
"Kindly Ladies Watch the Happy Aurangs again!" he declared triumphantly, throwing down both queens, both duchesses and both aurangs.
Half the success of the game was knowing precisely what made for a winning hand; there was a long list of combinations, just like the Hundred Rules of Harundo, and Rossamund was slow to remember them all. Once again his own hand was pathetically meager, the worst of the round and now-for the fifth time that night-he was made to gambol about, curling his arms in and out calling, "I'm a monkey! I'm a monkey!" his face attaining the hue of the red side of his quabard.
"Go easy on the new babbies," Lamplighter-Sergeant Mulch chuckled while the other Stoolers guffawed at Rossamund's antics. Threnody looked on with an expression of almost feline satisfaction. Mysteriously, Theudas never seemed to trump her, and she had not yet been made to dance a single turn.
Mulch's well-intentioned interjection only made Theudas more gleefully determined to win, and Rossamund was made to turn a jig many more times before he won his first hand. Of all his billet-mates, Aubergene or Lightbody were perhaps the most unfortunate at cards.
"Ye'd have to be the most losingest two I ever clapped eyes on!" Under-Sergeant Poesides would laugh almost every night as he watched either unfortunate lighter lope about foolishly as the winning cards directed. He and all the others-whether Stooler, Bleaker or Limper-would refuse to play them at the more serious hands of lesquin. Here the spoils of victory were grog rations and favors; the lowest-valued favor was to stand in for kitchen duties or firelock cleaning, the value quickly escalating to the ultimate prize: having another take your place to muck the jakes. Out here sewer-workings were not nearly as sophisticated as at Winstermill, and the water closets needed frequent flushing with buckets of old dishwater and cleaning with broad, blunt shovels on long handles-an odious job, the most unpleasant task for the day-watch.
The house-major would play no game of chance against his men-especially not lesquin-declaring solemnly that "an officer should never take from those under his command nor be seen to be overborne by them either." Near the end of their first week new stores arrived on the back of a long dray that had lumbered the dangerous Wettin Lowroad up from Hurdling Migh. Rossamund knew only vaguely of this city: an isolated settlement-so his peregrinat told him-semi-independent in its remoteness and filled with a stern yet hospitable people. The driver of the dray and his grim-looking side-armsman were both pale-looking fellows. They had apparently made the northward journey often, but the threatening rumor of bogle and nicker had forced them to hire a scourge for protection.
This hireling was called the Scarlet Tarquin. He-she-it-sat stiffly now at the front of the truck swathed entirely in red fascins, bandaged crown to toe in protective cloth with only two round lenses protruding at the eyes. Laden with salumanticums, stoups, powder-costers and all the appurtenances of skolding, the scourge simply watched but did not offer help. Passing the red-wrapped teratologist as he and Threnody tumbled down the steps to help unload, the young lighter was affronted by a faint, yet powerfully unpleasant whiff of potent chemistry. He stayed well clear of this scarlet scourge as he worked.
On the dray were piled crates of musket balls, wayfoods and script parts; butts of rum, wine and black powder; sacks of flour, cornmeal and dried pease; even three bolts of undyed drill for making-and-mending day.While two lighters stood at guard on the road, every item was hauled up by a limber-run sheer on the fourth floor, its winch arm swung out from broad double doors-the store-port high in Wormstool's wall. Climbing onto the dray, Rossamund helped Theudas and Poesides shift and tie each load to the sheer cord.
Standing below by the flat truck, the tired and humorless driver was arguing vociferously with Semple the day-clerk about the excessive charge for service this time.
"Thy wants thy goods timely and whole, do thee not?" the driver was saying. "Safe passage for cargo dern't come cheap nowadays." He glared at the Scarlet Tarquin for emphasis.
Rossamund did not hear the reply, for Poesides moved away with sudden violence, giving a great shout: "Watch it, lad! The knot's come loose! Load's goin' to fall!" The under-sergeant tried to grab at him but did not get a grip as he stumbled away.
"Clear out below!" came a sharp cry from the store-port above.
Rossamund looked up and there hurtling down to crush him was a butt, set free by a poorly tied knot-a knot he had wound himself.The young lighter hesitated in his fright, stupidly heedless of his own danger and more concerned with the possible harm to the stores.
"Rossamund!" Threnody yelped.
Yet he stood transfixed as the heavy barrel dropped on him; instead of leaping aside he caught the entire weight in his arms with little more than a slight huff!-just as you might catch an inflated ball. The weight of the load drove him to the truck-top, pinning him on his back. He held the butt on his chest for several astounded beats before lifting it and setting it carefully back on the tray, keenly aware of the equally astounded faces all turned to him, even peering in amazement from the fourth floor.
"Did ye see that?" he heard drift down from above. "Fifty pound of musket shot and he catched it without a trouble!"
"How'd you do that?" Theudas exclaimed. "That was a full butt of balls! It would have smashed even Sequecious flat!"
Threnody rushed to the side of the dray-truck and looked up at him. "Rossamund! Are you whole?"
"I-I believe so…" was all the young lighter could get out. He tugged at the white solitaire about his throat, seeking better breath.
"That's enough heavy loading for ye, lad," Poesides declared. "Ye can't depend on freakish catches all the time in this job. Take a spell inside. Have Mister Tynche or Splinteazle take a look at ye if ye reckon it necessary. I'll leave ye in the hands of the lass."
Rossamund obeyed, Threnody helping him up each stairway.
"You should have been pounded to pea-mash by that bullet-barrel," she insisted.
"My chest does hurt, if that's more satisfying," Rossamund answered wryly.
"Oh, ha-ha." Threnody did not look amused. "You should hardly make a jest of such a horrid thing. I thought you were done in! Poesides has it right: most certainly a freakish catch."
Talk of his feat buzzed about the cothouse in an instant, and other Stoolers popped their heads out from nooks to send funny looks his way.
Safely deposited on his bunk, Rossamund took off his proofed-silk sash and his quabard to relieve the bruised tenderness in his ribs.
"What is that about your chest?" Threnody asked, crouching by him and looking at the loose collar of his shirt.
Rossamund's innards almost burst open with fright. Oh no, my Exstinker bandage! "It's-it's-it's… it's for putting on nullodor," he tried.
"What, the one that Critchety-crotchety ledgermain fellow made you?" the girl lighter questioned.
Frowning, Rossamund nodded.
"You don't use it, do you?" Threnody snorted.
His frown deepening, he nodded once more.
"When? Even out unloading carts?"
"Aye!" Rossamund hissed in exasperation. "All the time! It was a command of my old masters back at the foundlingery."
"Aren't you the obedient little munkler, then?" Threnody looked narrowly at him. She turned and left him to recover alone. Later in the day, when goods were safely stowed and the dray left, returning to Bleakhall and then home, presumably to Hurdling Migh, Rossamund was called to House-Major Grystle's desk.
"What is this that I have ear of: you snatching falling loads as if they were light parcels?" the house-major queried.
"I couldn't well have let it fall to crash, sir." Rossamund was a little baffled by the fuss made of his fortunate grab.
Grystle gave a baffled blink of his own. "No, I suppose you couldn't have at that." He dusted a fleck off his pristine sleeve. "A powerful fine catch either way, Lampsman. I did not know they raised you so strong in Boschenberg-the lords at the Mill would be well advised to prentice more of your countrymen."
"Aye, sir."
"Maybe we should make you our fellow to challenge those stuffy Limpers to a wrench-of-arms?" The house-major gave a kindly smile.
Rossamund did not really know what his superior was talking about. "Maybe, sir" was all he could think to say.
After a clumsy pause that grew into an uncomfortable silence, Rossamund was dismissed.
Quizzical eyes were on him all that night at mains, the story growing some in its retelling. Aubergene asked him how he was feeling after catching half the load of the dray.
"It was really just one butt, nothing more," Rossamund explained.
"Aye, but I heard it was a very full one."
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.
Aubergene and Lightbody kept watch at their backs.
There was only a brief wait before the lofty door opened with a clunk and a small head peeped without.
"Ah-hah, das gut aufheitermen!" Rossamund seemed to hear, a soft woman's voice speaking incomprehensibly in what he could only presume-from his prenticing with Lampsman Puttinger-was Gott. "Guten Tag, happy fellows!" the voice called a little louder in Brandenard.
"Mother Lieger!" Poesides gave a hoarse cry, trying to be heard without making noise. "We have yer stores."
"Gut, gut," and the head disappeared.What had appeared like a small, moldering eave over the door shuddered and, with a click, began to drop smoothly to the ground, lowered on thick cord.
It was an elevator.They were rare in Boschenberg and, no matter how simple this device was, out in the wilds was the last place Rossamund expected to find one.
Each lighter was raised up on this small, worn platform. Poesides went first, and as the smallest Rossamund was sent up next, finding the elevator more stable than it first appeared. He had no notion how Mama Lieger might operate this device if ever she left the house, but this pondering did not occupy his mind long. At the top he found a tiny front room-the obverse-with loopholes in the back wall and another solid door too, which was currently open. The woman was not there, though domestic bustle was coming from some rearward room. Rossamund waited as the under-sergeant worked the mechanism that raised the platform. All present, Poesides led them through the second door to carefully deposit their burdens in a small closet at the end of a short, white hall.
"Ahh," came that soft female voice, getting louder as the speaker appeared from a side door. "I must be thanking you once again for keeping a poor old einsiedlerin's pantry full."
Bearing a tray of opaque white glasses, Mama Lieger turned out to be a neat, rather dumpy old lady, silvery tresses arranged in a precise bun, neither too tight nor too relaxed. Her homely clothes of shawl, stomacher-dress and apron were sensibly simple as was the interior of her humble dwelling. Run-down as it was, the parlor into which the men were invited was clean and tidy, any drafty holes plugged with unused flour-bags neatly rolled and wedged into the gaps. Yet for all this orderly homeliness there remained in her puddingy features evidence of the sharp, hawklike face she would have once possessed and a disquieting keen and untamed twinkle in her penetrating gaze-something deeply aware and utterly irrepressible. Serving them the piping, sharply spiced saloop the old eeker-woman looked Rossamund over hat-brim to boot-toe. "Who is this new one, then?" she smiled, her expression most definitely hawkish. "Do they make lighters in half sizes now, yes? To take up less room in your festung-your fortress-yes?"