Lamplighter (12 page)

“If you and your lampsmen are ready to depart, Grindrod,” Sebastipole replied evenly, “I am ready to coddle.” The leer turned and bowed to the boys. “Good evening, prentices.”

“Good evening, sir,” they all responded, as was their duty.

“Let us light the way.” Sebastipole led the prentice-watch down the stonework of the Approach. With a sharp toss of his head the leer drank something from a small black bottle. Whether this was some special concoction to enhance senses or prevent the sthenicon’s organs from growing up his nose, Rossamünd could not know. Drawing in several solid sniffs, the leer took out his sthenicon from its wooden case under his cloak. Rossamünd was certain he saw a hint of disgust as the leer strapped the ordinary-looking box to his face.

Rossamünd breathed in the frigid airs. The whole Harrowmath stretched about him, a slightly undulating moor of rippling, swaying reeds, weeds and grass. It stretched far south to the low hazy fells of the Sparrow Downs, and reached long into the north where paler greens gave over to the great straw-gray expanse of Sulk End. This unbroken pastoral flatness continued all the way around to the west where, on clearer days, great, distant windmills could be seen, sails lazily turning. Rossamünd had observed these very mills from the Vestiweg after his escape from the
Hogshead
. To the east, the stark, diminishing line of the Wormway ran out from under Rossamünd’s feet. On it went with the merest curve, right through the dark of the Briarywood and out the other side, on to the ancient, bald hills of the Tumblesloe Heap. There it disappeared into the mystery of the shadowy cleft of the Roughmarch.Though he had never ventured so far, Rossamünd knew that over the Tumblesloes the Idlewild began. Normally he might admire the vista, but this evening it held only threat.

With a heavy sigh, he dutifully followed his comrades.

Down the Approach they went, down on to the Pettiwiggin, dark with the chill gloom of Winstermill’s late afternoon shadow. The line of twenty-four lanterns they had to wind began here, at the bottom of the stonework ramp. Lantern East Winst 1 West Well 24 was the very first lamp on the Wormway, and as such was treated to special honors, writhen with a confusion of curls and finials of skillfully wrought iron. It even bore two gretchen-globes at either side of the main lamp-bell. They were small examples of the phosphorescent pearls formed inside the bellies of kraulschwimmen, spat out for brave divers to collect from murky seabeds. It was an ostentatious show of Imperial wealth that such precious items should be used to light this remote place. It was an equal show of the lamplighters’ vigilance that the local banditry had never tried to steal them. Assimus and Bellicos wound out the bloom, for no prentice was ever allowed to touch this most prized of lights.

Watching with his fellows, Rossamünd wondered at the strangely lumpy spheres of the gretchen-globes with their soft, innate radiance, disbelieving that such beauty could come from the foul innards of some monstrous sea-beast. He looked to Threnody to see if she too was amazed by these pearlescent lights, but she stood stock-still, arms folded against the cold and all the world too. On the other side of her, Punthill Plod was nonchalantly inching closer, his rapt and imperfectly hidden admiration showing he did not share his messmates’ ill opinion of her. He was trying so very hard not to look hopelessly, gormlessly smitten, and doing such a poor job of it, even Rossamünd could see his intent.

“Things of rare purity, are they not?” came a strange, almost squashed voice behind them.

Rossamünd looked to find Sebastipole there, his face hidden behind its sthenicon, its flat wooden front looking blankly at the gretchen-globes. The young prentice wondered how the lights might appear through the bizarre device.

“Aye,” he agreed, unsure if the leer remembered him. He spoke low to avoid Grindrod’s attention.

As Assimus and Bellicos did their work, the lamplighter-sergeant was loudly describing the winding to the prentices, a quick revision he performed at the beginning of every watch.

“I have it on good authority,” Sebastipole continued quietly, “that there are whole navies who use even more marvelous liaphobes than these as sea lights on the backs of their rams.”

“Aft-lanterns, sir.” Rossamünd could not help giving the correct term. It was as reflexive as a blink.

“Aft-lanterns?”

“Aye, Mister Sebastipole, aft-lanterns are fixed to the frame through the taffrail at the stern of a vessel.”

Threnody snorted dismissively. “Know-it-all,” she muttered. “You sound like an edition of Lot’s Books.”

“You remember me, I see.” The leer looked pointedly at Rossamünd, passing over Threnody’s aside. “Glad to see you made it to us after all. Bravo. I should know better than to misname the parts of a ram in the company of a marine-society lad.” Even through the strange sonics of the sthenicon, the leer’s humble pleasure at Rossamünd’s recognition was obvious.

“Altogether too much lip-flapping happening,” Grindrod barked, addressing Rossamünd and Threnody and conveniently ignoring that Sebastipole outranked him. “Are ye wanting more impositions, lippy-lucies?”

“No, Lamplighter-Sergeant!”

“Then attend to the winding, lantern-sticks, or ye’ll attend a week’s worth of the foulest duties my cunning can devise! Have ye got me?”

“Aye, Lamplighter-Sergeant!”

Grindrod gave Sebastipole a quick and frosty look.

The leer made no comment.

The lantern now glowing, the prentice-watch moved on, each watchman—man and boy—keeping a full fodicar’s length behind the next: the correct drill-book formation. The official wisdom had it that such spacing gave each lighter room to swing his lantern-crook, and the nicker a harder time attacking more than one lighter at once. This practice went against the natural urge to bunch together for protection, and Grindrod was continually correcting their gaps as the boys instinctively drew close to each other. “Step back there,Wheede!Ye want to march behind the fellow, not take him home to yer mammy! If ye were any closer, Plod, I’d have to separate ye and Pillow with a chisel!”

It was proving to be a drizzled, windy night. The Harrowmath sounded alive with the hiss and rush of southerly gusts through its grasses, accompanied by the tuneful buzzing of a rabble of frogs sending their sweet night music into the gloaming. And with this, along the gap of road between each lamp, the gritty, crunching unison footfalls of the regular-stepping prentice-watch added its own even rhythm.

Rossamünd felt safer with Sebastipole at the work tonight. The leer swayed his sthenicon left and right, left and right, as they moved away from the manse—a thorough, never ceasing reconnaissance.

At Lantern East Winst 8 West Well 17, Rossamünd was required to wind out the bloom, his shortened fodicar just barely reaching the ratchet.Twice he tried getting the crank-hook into the ratchet housing way above him in the crown of the lamp. Twice he failed, the hook end uselessly hitting the outer bracket of the housing and failing to slot home. Rossamünd had been issued this shorter lantern-crook in the belief that he could not handle one of full size, yet it had proved inadequate for the task. Winding out the bloom was one of the hardest skills to learn and a tool that barely reached the ratchet did not make it any easier.

The other prentices shuffled in the cold and groaned their impatience.

“Thank ye for the wait, Rosey!”

“Master Come-any-later-and-we’ll-be-here-till-Chill-ends!”

Even the lampsmen shuffled their feet as they watched and grumbled testily.

“What ails ye, Master Lately?” fumed Sergeant Grindrod. “If ye cannot get the crook in the hole, then what business have ye being a lighter? Ye boys’ll be the end o’ me afore I can make ye fit for lighting!”

Rossamünd could not help but agree. As he was about to fumble a third time, Threnody stepped up. Her expression dared Grindrod to argue. She took the fodicar in a firm hand and guided it true.The hook end connected into the ratchet with that pleasant, snug, metal-on-metal sensation that told it was properly engaged.

“Ah . . . Thank you, miss,” Rossamünd breathed. Shamefaced, he lifted the lantern-crook up for three ticks of the gears and let it fall under its own weight; lift and let fall—
up two three, down two three
it went, to work the gears that wound out the bloom.

The other prentices were stunned to muteness by Threnody’s actions.

Threnody said nothing and stepped away, keeping apart from the other lighters.

“Well, by front door or back, one still gets into the house.” Grindrod was clearly amused. “Wind it out faster, lantern-stick, there’s only a set count of hours in a night!”

With much puffing and aching arms, Rossamünd did his duty, the lamp rewarding his effort with a gradually increasing gleam, and the prentice-watch moved on. Behind them the brooding safety of Winstermill, with its thousand lamps and window-lights, diminished with every vialimn lit.

At East Winst 15 West Well 10, Rossamünd fared better with the winding, and at her own lights Threnody displayed her natural facility, working the ratchet with ease.

The glow of Lantern East Winst 17 West Well 8 on the approach to the Briarywood was discovered, once it was wound out, to have become a purulent yellow-green. The seltzer water had been gradually deteriorating.

Time to change the seltzer, just like a bright-limn
.

A clothbound record was produced from Bellicos’ satchel and the lantern’s state recorded for Wellnigh House’s seltzermen to attend to the next day.The wind gathered pace as this was done, buffeting out from icy storehouses down in the southeast, making ears noisy with its passing and quieting frog song. On the walk again, Rossamünd twisted and craned his neck to relieve his hearing from the gusting airs, desperate to catch suspicious, dangerous sounds. Sebastipole kept at his ceaseless vigilance.

Too soon they reached the Briary, its tops creaking in the wind but at its roots deathly still. The pyre of nicker corpses was a soggy charred mass that, even after three days, hissed and steamed with incomplete combustion. Wet woody smells sat heavy in the atmosphere. It was as if the threwd had worsened, not diminished; that the killing of the horn-ed monsters in the wood had only stirred that place, not quelled it. Even the hardheaded, stonehearted Grindrod felt the horrors tonight. The lampsmen hurried the prentices through, insisting upon winding the great-lanterns here themselves to save time and their nerves. At each winding Rossamünd truly expected Sebastipole to cry out that a nicker was nigh upon them—yet he did not.

With Phoebë lifting her nightly shrinking face over the darkling hills, the prentice-watch found themselves gratefully passing the great fuming censers of Wellnigh House and entering the safety of the cothouse confines.

“How was it?” one of the house-watch asked.

“The threwd grows” was Bellicos’ curt reply.

“Aye,” the house-watchman returned, “don’t it always, these days?”

burges
small flags for signaling, made in sets of distinct patterns for the representation of letters, numbers, cardinal points, titles of rank or social elevation, even whole words. The color of a burge is first and foremost for distinction, though the meaning of the colors can be inferred if a small multistripe, multicolored flag—known as the parti-jack—is flown with them. Burges are used for both civil and military purposes on land and the vinegar seas.

 

 

A
s it had been on their previous prentice-watches, Rossamünd’s quarto was rudely awoken before the sun had properly started its own day. In the hurry of breakfast Rossamünd thanked Threnody for her help with his lantern-crook.

“I could not help myself,” she said a little stiffly. “It is the way of a calendar: strive against the oppressor, relieve those oppressed, work for those who cannot afford a teratologist’s labors, feed them that cannot afford the food, give roof to the roofless, a bed to the bedless.” She spoke her creed with the monotone of rote learning.

The prentices were blessed with a friendly greeting from Sebastipole as they formed up to leave, a profound contrast to the surliness of Assimus, Bellicos and Puttinger.The leer at the lead, out went the lantern-watch, out into the early gray when the air seems especially clear and still and cheeks hurt with the cold and everyone speaks in a hush; out to quell the lights for the glory of Ol’ Barny once more. Dawning glimmers expanded to an astounding rosy brilliance as they returned—as they must—through the Briary’s brooding shadows.

Even the hard veteran lampsmen kept quiet and looked often to the leer. Rossamünd was sure he heard suspicious rustlings and rattlings in the winter-barren woods, thick with faintly luminous fogs, but Sebastipole did not give an alarm.