Imperial Secretary highest ranked of all the Haacobin Empire's bureaucrats; men and women of great influence and power, not so much because of their own rank, but because of the status of the ears and minds they have such ready access to-the senior ministers of the Emperor, and even the great man himself. The favor of an Imperial Secretary can be the making of you: disfavor your ruin. Though often of common birth, they are typically courted and feted by peers, especially the lowly ranked, and by gentry and magnates too, eager for some kind of advancement or boon. One does not strive to be an Imperial Secretary for dreams and hopes of reform, but for the sake of pure ambition and ego.
THE morning of the inquiry after a brief wash and short breakfast, Rossamund was led to the offices of the subrogat-marshal between two foot-guards, like a prisoner. Fransitart and Craumpalin went with him, heads high and dignified, vinegaroons of tested worth in support of a worthy mate. They were recognized as interested parties on Rossamund's side and as such were allowed to sit with him during the questioning.
Within Whympre's file Rossamund was surprised to find more people gathered than he had expected. Dismayed, he scrutinized the lofty folk sitting at the far end of the table. It was a tribunal of men, ready and waiting, most ignoring the young lighter before them as inconsequential fluff. This tribunal comprised foremost the Master-of-Clerks, preeminent in the central position. Upon his right was indexer Witherscrawl, a pen ready in each hand and two ledgers open before him, acting as his assistant and glaring at Rossamund for no good reason at all. Next to him was the General-Master-of-Labors assisted by the Surveyor-of-the-Works-two of Whympre's chief cronies. In the shadows of the far corner Rossamund was startled to find that black-eyed wit, standing with his head bowed, not bothering to look at Rossamund but rather peering darkly through brows to the corner behind the young lighter. Most astounding and disconcerting of all, sitting impassively at the Master-of-Clerks' left, was an Imperial Secretary, distinct in shaven head and coattails of clerical black. His role was as an independent eye, yet this was probably the very same esteemed personage under whose support the Master-of-Clerks had blossomed.
To the right of these-as Rossamund saw it-on a chair to the side of the Board sat Surgeon Grotius Swill, the official adviser for any inquiries on physics, picking at lint on his breeches. Rossamund knew this was rightly the task of Doctor Crispus, but he was not present. Halfway down the left side of the table sat Laudibus Pile, designated the inquisitor, and assisted by Fleugh, the under-clerk, already scribbling away in a ledger. Rossamund's innards gave a painful, sick twist. Anyone without an intimate knowledge of the workings and the personalities of Winstermill would think this collection of officers and bureaucrats before them a worthy and impressive bunch. But from Rossamund's view it was a tribunal stacked against his favor.
As Fransitart and Craumpalin took their seats behind him at the back of the room, Rossamund caught a flash of deep magenta silk in the corner behind. He turned. There was Europe, legs crossed, an easy expression on her face; she was making a grand entrance into his life again, even while she simply sat, serene.
"Hello, little man," she said smoothly. "We meet in some of the most peculiar circumstances, don't you think?"
"But how-"
"Quiet, please," came the Master-of-Clerks' tight call.
Rossamund's old masters looked from the fulgar to Rossamund and back, Craumpalin nodding toward her as if to say, "Is that her?"
As Rossamund took his place at the end of the table, there was a rustling and a hustle as the Lady Vey proceeded into the hall, attended by Dolours, a gloomy-looking Threnody and Charllette in full mottle-and-harness: all four women-even Threnody-wore wings and high hats and bright-patterned bossocks, a startling display of their unity. Threnody was a lighter no longer. With some fussing, the Lady Vey and Charllette took their places on the right side of the table opposite Laudibus Pile. With Dolours joining Fransitart, Craumpalin and Europe at the back, Threnody sat at Rossamund's right hand. He tried to catch her eye, but she refused to look to him.
Clearing his throat loudly,Witherscrawl stood and called the room to order, introducing each member of the tribunal to the other, calling it collectively a "Board of Officers." He paid particular honors to the Imperial Secretary, naming him Secretary Imperial Scrupulus Sicus.The alert-looking official stood and gave a gracious bow to the Master-of-Clerks, to the Lady Vey, Dolours, and then, almost as an afterthought, to Europe, far down the other end of the room.
To Rossamund it very much appeared like boys playing at "Lords and Magnates," a child's game of grandiloquence and false civility.
Introductions done, it was now Pile's turn. "Secretary Imperial Sicus. Marshal-Subrogat Whympre," he began, standing and pacing into the broad oblong gap between all the various tables. "We have done our preliminaries regarding the occurrence of the assault on His Serene Highness' Imperial Cothouse of Wormstool not two weeks gone.The purpose of this inquiry is to lay out what we have found, Mister Secretary, and derive conclusions for the satisfaction of all." He took a pause. "First I shall begin with the Lady Threnody of the Columbines of Herbroulesse, who served briefly with us as a lampsman 3rd class, m' lady." Pile bowed to Threnody, all snide and obscure sarcasm, his tone hovering expertly on the divide between deference and offense.
Threnody sat a little stiffer.
Pile began. "You were present at Wormstool Cothouse during the attack on the twenty-third of Herse, correct?"
"Yes." Threnody frowned. "I arrived back there after restocking a stone-harbor with Rossamund and Splinteazle."
"By which you mean Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild-present here, and Seltzerman 2nd Class Splinteazle-who sadly died at the attack of which we speak, yes?"
"Yes."
"How did Seltzerman 2nd Class Splinteazle die?" Pile rocked on his heels with deliberate gravity.
Threnody hesitated. "He was torn to death by a pack of brodchin and other nickers."
"And did you and Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild do all you could to save him?"
Rossamund shifted in his seat. Of course we tried to save him!
"Yes, leer, we did," Threnody returned coldly. "Rossamund-"
"You mean Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild," the Master-of-Clarks interrupted.
The girl went quiet for a moment, to prove her displeasure at the man's rudeness. "Yes, who would be Rossamund." She waited to be corrected again. "He was in a better place to help Splinteazle and fought most vigorously, while I had my own gnashers to confront."
"And why did Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild fail to save the unfortunate seltzerman?" Pile asked softly.
Are they trying to blame poor Splinteazle's end on me?
"He didn't fail at anything." Threnody scowled. "The beasts were too quick, and overpowered Splinteazle before Rossamund could help. He threw a blaste at the beasts to hinder them, but it was not enough to stop them all."