Lamplighter (60 page)

“And . . .”

Threnody gave a small cough. “Because I watched him kill a monster. But that event is plain enough,” she added quickly. “You don’t need me to tell you of it.”

Pile’s shrewd eyes narrowed. “Indeed.” Apparently careless, he picked at some spot or mark upon his soutaine. “Yet tell me . . . m’lady, do not these events strike you as unusual, almost impossible?” The leer looked piercingly at her with his all-seeing eyes.

Threnody cast an anxious glance toward her mother.

The Lady Vey was sitting more stiffly than ever, looking not at her daughter but directing her brittle gaze at the wall between two windows.

“I suppose they do,” the girl said in a small voice Rossamünd had never heard her use before.

“You
suppose
they do? Hmm . . . Is what she says true, Lampsman Bookchild?” Pile asked, looking to his palm as if the question were a trifling thing.

The young lighter shied. “Ah ... Y-yes ...”

Murmurs from the observers.

Rossamünd did not know what else to say. What was the use in dissembling? With this false-hearted falseman his questioner, who would people believe? Such a fellow in command of a room could do anything with the truth; with no other telltale present, no one could credibly challenge him.

“Of Lady Threnody’s part in the battle, her success is clear: a wit, however young, fighting off a beastie is perfectly proper, and this young peer should be commended as the bravest and best of her clave. Maybe it is only me who is bemused by this, but elucidate for me—if you are able, Lampsman 3rd Class—how a mere lad of your slight stature manages to defeat a man’s share of nickers! How does one so small win through unharmed, where a cothouse-full of the Emperor’s own was bested and slain?”

Rossamünd had no answer. It was a fair question: he wondered it himself.

“I agree with you, Master Leer,” interposed the Master-of-Clerks, “that this is highly irregular.”

“Thank you, sir.” The leer spoke smoothly, in an even, convincing voice. “Give your answer, Lampsman.”

Rossamünd obeyed. “I-I don’t rightly know, sir.”

Pile seemed to be smirking. “M’lady Threnody of Herbroulesse, is there anything else about Lampsman Bookchild’s manner you would describe as irregular?”

Despite the firm set of her jaw, Threnody went pale.

“There is nothing to be hidden here, m’lady,” Laudibus Pile purred, his disconcerting eyes daring a contradiction to his honeyed voice. “This is but an inquest into the whys and wherefores, for the sake of record.”

The calendar looked to her mother again.

The Lady Vey just glowered meaningfully.

Threnody looked at Rossamünd again, her expression confused and intention unclear.

“And,
m’lady?” Pile persisted, completely undaunted.

With a deep breath she said, “He wears a bandage soaked in a kind of nullodor around himself all the time.”

Pile pursed his lips. “Surely an odd and unnecessary habit?”

“He does it only for the sake of his old foundling masters,” Threnody insisted.

“I see.” The leer set his cunning attention on Fransitart and Craumpalin. “How the count of oddities increases.”

The two old salts stared back angrily.

Swill shifted in his seat stroking his mustachios thoughtfully, and regarded Rossamünd and the two retired vinegaroons closely.

“Is it not
also
true—as the report I have declares,” Laudibus Pile continued, looking like a hungry dog, “that this young fellow
refused
to be puncted even after such a great feat as done at the Imperial Cothouse of Wormstool? Would you not also call such refusal—so dishonoring the memories of the fallen—odd, my dear?”

Threnody’s mouth stayed shut. With a brief glare at the leer, she fixed her attention stubbornly on the wall before her.

“I can see that you know it to be very much the case.” Pile tapped his cheek just below one of his red-blue orbits. “So you might as well just speak out those things you cannot hide . . . Or may I take it that by your silence”—Pile scratched his nose daintily to hide his subtle, goading expression—“you think it right for the courageous dead to be dishonored?”

The Lady Vey bridled, her seat moving with a clatter of chair legs on hard, polished floor. “I will not tolerate my daughter’s being accused of dishonor, sir!”

Pile turned his cold, unnerving eyes to the august. “Maybe she might be free of such an accusation if she ceased hedging for this
fine fellow
”—he pointed dismissively to Rossamünd—“and told this esteemed panel fully what I can clearly tell she knows!”

“Have a care, sir,” the Lady Vey warned, soft and low. “Now speak, my dear,” she demanded of her daughter, “and let this ridiculous fiasco come to its end!”

Threnody darted a look to her mother. “There is nothing more to say, Mother,” she said, a darkly victorious look growing in her eye. “Rossamünd is no more odd than any other in this
ridiculous
inquiry.”

Laudibus Pile puffed his chest and lifted his haughty head.
“I
am a thrice-proven telltale in the Emperor’s Service,” he declaimed with quiet, frosty arrogance, “under charge of our Serene Highness’ most humble minister, the Marshal-Subrogat. My eyes see true, and I say to you, young peerlet, that that is an utter and thorough-going
lie!”

The Lady Vey rose, crying her disapproval. “How dare you, sir! That is twice now you slander her; there shall not be three! I will not hesitate to use my privileges to make my displeasure felt on you, leer. Blast your eyes to flinders! If my daughter says there is no more, then—by the foul depths—that is the end of the matter!”

“If you wish your daughter free from slander, madam,” Pile seethed, his façade failing, “then you should have schooled her better in honesty!”

“Please, Laudibus!” interjected the Master-of-Clerks. There was genuine alarm in his voice, yet that predatory look never left his eye. “I am most positive this fine young peeress would not dream of soiling her clave’s honor by obfuscating truths or uttering falsehoods in a properly convened Imperial Inquest. Our good Lady Vey has indeed taught her too well.” He smiled winningly at the august. “Is this not correct, Madam August?”

The Lady Vey looked at him proudly, her own chin in the air. She cleared her throat ever so softly—a subtle, female threat.

“My exulted madam,” Pile said with wounded dignity, bowing most humbly, “I merely seek the truth, and if my zeal for it has offended your person I apologize.”

Imperial Secretary Sicus raised a hand. “Falseman Pile, I thank you,” the vaunted clerk declared regally. “You have sought your trail as far as it might take you, but I warn you now to let it go. We cannot have these gracious ladies harried so.”

Rossamünd heard Threnody give a scornful sniff.

“Most Honorable Secretary!” The leer faced him and clasped his hands piously. “One might be tempted to disregard any of these on their own as either minor offenses or just an idiosyncrasy, sir.Yet when so many irregularities find themselves embodied in one soul, my intuitions and insights as a falseman start to tell a darker story.” Laudibus Pile pointed to Rossamünd. “There he sits, Master Secretary, with his face so po, but is it possible this solemn young toad hides a wicked treachery? Is it possible that this apparent servant of the Emperor is in league with the nickers, that he survived because of this league, and not through some act of individual prowess? That is why he wears a nullodor all the time—to mark himself out to his nickerly friends! He killed them only for a show, and this is why he refused a mark! I say to you, Master Secretary, surely this one is a wicked sedorner! Surely it is he who, with his monster friends, orchestrated the attack on Wormstool!
Surely
that is why he survived!”

Rossamünd gritted his teeth against a sudden fury within. So this was their game—to accuse him a sedorner and shuffle him off to the gallows. He almost sprang to his feet.

“So I must ask you, most honored Master Secretary,” the leer said, bowing low and long, “that I forthwith be allowed to examine Lampsman 3rd Class Bookchild, so getting to the root of this tragedy.”

Imperial Secretary Sicus stood, hand still lifted in placation. “This is a
most
serious charge. It is most persuasively put, and I thank you, Mister Pile; yet I believe I shall continue the inquiry from here.”

The leer bowed, his mien unreadable.

The Master-of-Clerks did not look best pleased, and surreptitiously gave an unhappy look to the leer.

Secretary Sicus turned his powerful attention to Rossamünd. “What is your answer to this charge, Lampsman 3rd Class? You have been accused a sedorner, lad. What say you?”

Before the young lighter could open his mouth, Grotius Swill, calm and calculating, stood, a hand raised. “If I may interject on proceedings, good sirs!” the surgeon inquired politely. “I have been listening now to these most troubling details, and I declare to you esteemed officers of the table that a possibility yet more disturbing has revealed itself to my thoughts. I ask your indulgence to pursue my own inquiries.” He bowed low to the collected personages seated at the long table.

The Master-of-Clerks nodded, all pomp and smugness, covering his surprise at the interruption. “Indeed, dear surgeon, you are our eminent physical man here. Let us take a brief recess for breaths to catch and minds to clear.”

The room was emptied but for Rossamünd. Even Europe went, leaving him to worry alone on what terrible revelations might follow. Pile had already claimed he was a sedorner—a claim, in truth, he could not deny. What other crimes was Swill to lay upon him?

libermane
potive used to prevent the cruor of a monster from clotting too quickly as it is stored in a bruicle. Useful as this is, it also affects the quality of the blood, thinning it and making the cruorpunxis it is used for pale, less distinct. Therefore libermane is used only when teratologists believe they are more than a couple of days’ journey from a punctographist. Another function of libermane is its application on swords, knives and other blades of war, to make a wound flow more than it ought, though by the Accord of Menschen this practice is deemed unacceptable in modern conflict.

 

 

 

H
ONORIUS Ludius Grotius Swill peered about at the many personages who had reconvened in the clerk-master’s file. “It may be that when I first declare the notion that has occurred to me,” he began, “you shall think it a mad genius-leap, so I ask you, gracious Officers of the Board, to please bear with me. The full play of my thoughts
will
clarify if I am given the time.” He cleared his throat histrionically, giving Rossamünd an odd look from the corner of his eye. “Officers of the Board, paritous inquisitor, peers, ladies, gentlemen, I have listened this whole morning to the witness of these two young Imperial servants—listened long and keen—and what I have heard troubles me greatly. However, one question vexes me over all others. What truly does all this evidence point to, and how is it such a runty
...lad
might do such feats as he has done?” He pondered a moment, a fine act to focus people’s attention upon him. “In view of an answer, if I may I would like to address the whole room with this question: how many of you have heard of Ingébiargë? Perhaps you know her as Biargë the Beautiful?”

The Master-of-Clerks and Scrupulus Sicus, the Imperial Secretary, nodded.

The Lady Vey made a face as if to say,
What does it matter if I have or have not?

No one else indicated either way.

Rossamünd knew of Ingébiargë. Craumpalin had told him of her more than once. She was meant to be a cannibalistic woman living in the remotest coasts of the Hagenlands who, by forgotten habilistics, had kept herself alive many thousands of years and made prey of any who passed too near. Such an unnatural length of life had apparently twisted her: she was gray-skinned, with red and yellow eyes more terrible than any leer’s.

“Some of you might dismiss this Ingébiargë as a fiction, but any vinegaroon who has sailed east beyond the Mare Periculum through the Beggar Sea, or harbored in the road-stead off the Stander Lates near Dereland’s western shores, will tell you she is a very real and very factual danger. If we could ask a mariner of one thousand years gone of her, he too would give the same ghastly report.”

The normally indulgent Master-of-Clerks, most likely aware of Secretary Sicus sitting immediately to his right, started to show impatience at this bizarre divagation.

The surgeon lifted his hands appeasingly. “Now please, sirs, attend to me, I do have a point. Ingébiargë, the great abomination, the shame of the Hagenards, known as an ever-living monstrous everyman—or woman.” He corrected himself with a peculiar look to the calendars and Europe. “Yet she is not the only one. The obscurest corners of history will reveal the occurrence of other such abominations, though most, when discovered, were destroyed before they could become the terrible canker Ingébiargë is to southern shipping to this day. For this Biargë is not some clever skold, as some might reckon, but rather a manikin—a monster in the shape and form of a person, and as such more assuredly an abomination.”