4
AN INTERVIEW WITH THE SURGEON
post-lentum(s) among the carriages more
commonly used to traverse the highroads and byroads of the
Half-Continent, post-lentums deliver mail and taxi people (for a
fare) from one post to another. They are manned by a lenterman or
driver, an escort (usually armed and armored) known as a
side-armsman or cock robin (if wearing a red weskit of Imperial
Service) or prussian (if wearing a deep blue weskit of private
employment) and one or two backsteppers—either splasher boys or
post runners or amblers—sitting upon the seats at the back of the
roof.When traveling dangerous stretches, another backstepper may
join—a quarter-topman possessing a firelock and a keen gaze—for
extra protection. This crew is collectively referred to as
lentermen. Po’lent is the common term for these vehicles, an
abbreviated derivation of po(st) lent(um).
WINSTERMILL grew step-by-step before them.
An ancient stronghold, massive and lonely upon the flat moors of
the Harrowmath, it was familiar and welcome to Rossamünd already.
He still marveled at the squat, gray cartography of its
lichen-blotched roofs and their chimney spires, at the mightily
thick outer walls and the foundations upon which the fortress was
lifted high above the plain. When he had first observed it those
two months gone he had thought it like some great, overgrown manor
house, but now he knew the fortress to be much more. Once a small
outpost of the Tutins of old, the fortress of Winstermill had
accreted over the centuries: towers added, floors added, the whole
mound of Winstreslewe built up and encircled with a thick wall.
Once it had stood at a junction of trade routes; now it had grown
over and submerged these roads in its footings. The western run of
the Wormway and the north-south course of the Gainway made tunnels
in Winstermill’s foundations and joined beneath the very fortress.
As far as Rossamünd knew, these tunnels were called the Bowels—if
they had any other name he had not heard it. In the evening, great
grilles were lowered over their gaping mouths to prevent monsters
and vagrants from setting up a home there, and mighty steams of
repellents were regularly flushed through in the small hours of the
morning to force out any unwelcome lurkers. These duties were
reserved for the house-watch, and Rossamünd was glad of that. Not
in all recorded history of the current Empire had a monster ever
won its way into the manse.
The broad Imperial Spandarion that usually flapped
proud and defiant above the battlements hung limp now in the day’s
damp.The morning was already long, limes missed and second morning
instructions well under way. Rossamünd had never felt so tired.
Passing through the mighty gates, their arrival counted by the
tally-clerk and his cursors, they were greeted by one of the
house-guard calling down to them from the wall.
“Hoi there, me fellows! There’s Lady Dry-stick
ready to lash us with her dim-wits.Wit us too, like ye did our
mates!” News of Threnody’s actions had already traveled
ahead.
“Don’t goad at her, chum,” came another. “She’s as
likely to fish us as soon as fart, from what I hear!”
“Fish” was a vulgar term for frission. Rossamünd
shot a look to Threnody, sitting stiff on the seat behind. The
young calendar’s chin jutted high in supercilious display, yet she
betrayed her anger with the clenching and unclenching of her fine
jaw.
The donkeys’ hooves and carriage wheels made a
harsh grinding in the white quartz gravel that formed a broad drive
from the gate to the manse’s main entrance.The drive skirted three
acres of paved ground known as the Grand Mead, which fronted the
manse itself. It was large enough to contain kennels, several
strong-houses, room for the parading and evolutions of the whole
fortress and yet still allow for the frequent coming and going of
carriages and other conveyances. There was even space for a
well-tended green by the wall of the manse proper with benches and
a grove of pines for the officers to sit beneath. Here a convention
of territorial rooks would caw and cackle every evening before
returning to their roost in the manse’s ridge-caps, eyeing
everything angrily and keeping pigeons away. At the end of the
drive stood the Scaffold, a single gaunt tree that Rossamünd had
observed the night he first arrived.
As he walked by the curricle, Rossamünd watched a
company of haubardiers working through drills under the shadow of
the eastern wall, standing and moving in well-practiced order. He
could not see the other lantern-sticks; they would be at readings
now, suffering dire boredom in the Lectury with Mister Humbert. A
post-lentum came through the gates, overtook them and rattled on to
the covered stables to the right of the main building. The
postilion blew his long horn to herald their arrival. The post
is here! The post is here! its call declared.
Rossamünd felt an instinctive thrill, the sweet
anticipation of a letter from a loved one—from Verline perhaps (it
had been a whole month since her first missive), or Fransitart . .
. or maybe even one from Europe.
It was obvious the arrival of the calendars was
expected, for a welcome of officials turned out in their finest
threads emerged from the manse. As Clement took the curricle
through to halt before the front doors, the women were greeted
first by Podious Whympre, the Master-of-Clerks. An officious man
who smiled too much, he was dressed in sumptuous Imperial scarlet.
He had only that year become acting second-in-command of
Winstermill, and with the promotion his influence had grown.
Joining him, and accompanied by all their particular secretaries,
were other senior martial-bureaucrats: the Quartermaster, the
niggardly Compter-of-Stores, the rotund General-Master-of-Labors
and his Surveyor-of-the-Works, and a scowling
General-Master-of-Palliateers. Even the rarely seen
Captain-of-Thaumateers was in attendance. A small file of
clerks—the chief of which was Witherscrawl—followed, along with a
guard of troubardier pediteers in their bright lour-covered,
proof-steel loricas and soft square pagrinine hats. Rather than
their usual poleaxes, the pediteers bore high umbrellas to provide
a roof against the steady drizzle.
Yet one among them refused to dress the dandy. A
skulking fellow in a midnight-dark soutaine, he hovered at the
Master-of-Clerks’ back and stared viperlike with ill-colored eyes
of red orb and pale blue iris. This was Laudibus Pile, leer and
faithful falseman to Podious Whympre. He could often be seen
whispering at the Master-of-Clerks’ ear, a telltale saying what was
truth and what was lie. To Rossamünd he was a false-seeming
falseman, and he was glad he had little to do with this fellow or
his master.
The one person missing was the
Lamplighter-Marshal.
“Lady Threnody, you honor us at last.” The
Master-of-Clerks bowed, a perfect study of civility. “And Lady
Dolours. We are met again. It has been almost a year since you
helped us against those brutish ashmongers in the Owlgrave.”
Dolours gave the man a tired, knowing look.
“And what relief it was,” the Master-of-Clerks
continued without pause, spreading his arms to include the various
lampsmen in attendance, “to receive report that our tireless
lighters did rescue you this yesternight gone. How happy it is you
have both arrived sound and intact.”
The bane had been looking most poorly but now she
presented a hale front. “Clerk-Master Podious Whympre,” she said
with a subtle frown at the falseman Laudibus a-whisper-whisper
behind the man, “a delight.” She paused. “For the good deeds done
last night I am grateful. Your Marshal is not present, I see.
Matters more pressing keep him from us?”
DOLOURS
Even Rossamünd knew that the absence of the
Lamplighter-Marshal was a great affront. Of all the officers of
Winstermill, the Lamplighter-Marshal was not only the most senior,
but also had the reputation as the most punctual and
gentlemanly.
“Ah, ever-astute Lady Bane, you do your clave
proud. The Lamplighter-Marshal, I am certain, would give sincere
apology for his nonattendance were we able to find him.” Though the
Master-of-Clerks’ face was apologetic, his eyes were bright.
Dolours stepped past and went to push through the
gaggle of officers and clerks. “It is well, for proper meetings
must sadly wait; our sister Pandomë is deadly hurt. I hear your
physic Crispus is of fair repute. Would you consent to his
immediately attending to her wounds?”
The Master-of-Clerks was obliged to step quickly,
moving from the precious cover of his troubardier-held umbrella and
leaving his falseman behind. “Indeed, madam, Doctor Crispus is a
man of many parts,” he said, his smile broadening almost to a sneer
as a troubardier hurried to cover him with a high parasol. “Alas,
however, he is gone away to Red Scarfe to tend a disturbing
outbreak of the fugous cankers. Ah, but all is not a loss! Grotius
Swill, our surgeon and the physician’s locum, remains with us. He
will serve, I’m sure.”
The calendars looked less than pleased.
“Whatever you might provide,” Dolours said
wearily.
Even as the bureaucrats dispersed, the
Lamplighter-Marshal, the Earl of the Baton Imperial of Fayelillian
himself, hastened from the doors of the manse. He was a
grand-looking old man with long white mustachios, although
unfashionable; he wore no wig, rather his own hair kept short as a
true lighter’s. His mottle-and-harness were simple—quabard over
platoon-coat—worn easy and naturally. In a way he looked just like
an ordinary lampsman, the most physically capable, shrewd and
dangerous ordinary lampsman you might ever meet.Yet there was a
barely perceptible atmosphere of weariness about him, a sense of
harassment and overwork. He acknowledged the calendars warmly
enough, saying through a rueful smile, “My most sincere apologies
to ye, dear, dear Lady Dolours; what a bumbling scrub I must seem.
It is unforgivable that I was not here in the first to meet ye.”
Mustachios a-bristle, the Marshal flashed a look of veiled wrath at
Podious Whympre. “I would have been more timely, but found myself
needlessly summoned to the farthest end of the manse. I have only
now been told of yer arrival.”
Nodding an obsequious bow, the Master-of-Clerks
tut-tutted. “Those new clerks are quite useless. Unacceptable, sir,
unacceptable. They shall be most particularly reprimanded.”
There was a small silence.
The Lamplighter-Marshal offered his hand to
Dolours. “It’s clear ye’re unwell, m’dear. Let’s withdraw to the
quiet of my duty room. I hope its comforts will make amends. How is
yer bonny august, the Lady Vey? She sends communication?”
The two turned their backs on the Master-of-Clerks
and, without a further word to him, went inside. With a pointed
show of proper manners, Podious Whympre bowed to their retreating
backs.
As the bureaucrats dispersed, two porters were
summoned to carry Pandomë to the manse’s infirmary. Rossamünd had
never—thank the Signal Stars!—been required to attend an
appointment with the surgeon. Brought by especial request of the
Master-of-Clerks, Grotius Swill, according to the common-mess
rumor, held staunchly to the surgeon’s creed of amputating first
and investigating later; of fossicking about far too much in
people’s innards rather than administering the tried and proved
chemical cures of dispensurist or physician. How did the rhyme
go?
Honorius Ludius Grotius Swill
Saws off your limbs, but eschews the pill;
For a cough he removes fingers, a sneeze he’ll take toes,
And fevers will cost you your ears and your nose.
Saws off your limbs, but eschews the pill;
For a cough he removes fingers, a sneeze he’ll take toes,
And fevers will cost you your ears and your nose.
Rossamünd shuddered—he would never allow someone to
dig about inside him, and could not understand why lahzars and the
like would pay to submit themselves to such abominable
treatment.
With Threnody walking alongside her injured sister,
he led the way through the empty vestibule down the Forward Hall
and left through the right angles and long passages that led to the
infirmary. They moved through the domain of the bureaucracy of
Winstermill, a place that had a reputation as a strange and
uncomfortable place for those not of the clerical set, even for
experienced lighters. They passed white wooden doors from which
would sporadically emerge a secretary, clerk or servant.These would
pass in turn with a muttered apology or impatient sneer, to
disappear in another white port along the way. Going deeper into
the manse, the smoky perfume of the dark, venerable wood of
furniture, beam and wainscot soaked the atmosphere. It grew
strongest as they entered a large passage known as the Broad Hall.
Several doors went at intervals down either side, the spandarions
of the local city-states mounted between. The first door on the
left was painted a pale lime green.
Through this was the infirmary.
Rossamünd stepped up and gave a reluctant tap. An
epimelain answered almost instantly, her broad brown skirts and
oversized apron filling the entire doorway.The woman’s expression
exquisitely stated, Yes?What do you want? I have no time for
this! without the use of a single word.
Hat in hand, Rossamünd bowed. “This wounded lady
needs a physic’s mending, miss.”
The epimelain looked over him to the stricken
calendar, to the porters, then to Threnody and back to Rossamünd.
She gave a soft, high “humph,” turned and sashayed away. This was
enough permission for the porters, who immediately went in, shoving
Rossamünd aside.Threnody followed them without a thank-you. Within
was a long hall, well-made beds down either side, pillows arranged
identically against the wall with prim regimental exactitude, bed
ends forming a squeezy aisle along which the epimelain’s skirts
brushed and rustled noisily as she hurried between. A few beds were
occupied, various ailing souls coughing or sighing in their
discomfort, and another woman dressed similarly attended the
bedside of one of the ill.
Behind a lectury desk was the person they sought:
Honorius Ludius Grotius Swill, the carver of lamplighters, their
surgeon. He was short and thin and sported a meticulous mustache
and a fixed frown. Dressed immaculately, he sat with a flam-toothed
saw in one hand and a hone gripped in the other, sharpening the
blade to and fro, careless of the patients about him.
“Your pardon, surgeon.”
With a small start, Surgeon Swill stood and faced
the woman. He looked at the group a little confusedly. “Come,
come,” he said, finally fixing his attention on Rossamünd, “let me
look you over.”
“Ahh . . . not me, sir.” Rossamünd gestured
nervously to the stretcher-borne Pandomë. “Her.”
Surgeon Swill looked to the calendar. “Very good.
Leave her here.”
The porters laid the bier on the closest empty bed
and retreated promptly without so much as a good-bye, leaving
Rossamünd and Threnody with Swill.
Threnody stepped up, chin high. “I’ll have you
know, sir, that I have been under the steady knife of the finest
transmogrifer in or outside the Empire. Before I submit her to your
ill-learned investigations, quacksalver, I would have you
understand this: my mother is the Lady Vey, and should you
mishandle my sister, your days of lawful practice shall end.”
Rossamünd looked at the floor. This was surely not
the way to go on if she was seeking to become a
prentice-lighter.
The surgeon looked at her coldly. “Moving about the
odd organ is enough for some to claim great talent, but
there are subtler things one can do with a knife. My ill learning
will be learning enough to set your sister to rights.” He took up a
weird-looking monocle, its protruding end a completely opaque black
smoothness, and squinted it into his left eye. It was an even
stranger instrument than Rossamünd had seen Doctor Verhooverhoven
wearing at the Harefoot Dig when treating Europe so ill from
spasming. It was some kind of obscure biologue, he was sure,
designed to make a surgeon’s or physician’s work more
effective.
Threnody stood close and watched suspiciously as
Swill bent over the bed and scrutinized the injured, unconscious
Pandomë, peering pedantically through the monocle at every cut,
gouge and contusion. The epimelain hovered, waiting to serve any
command. Swill worked in silence but for a periodic “mm-hm” and the
scratching of stylus on paper as he made notes of what he
discovered.
Fascinated, Rossamünd shuffled forward to get a
clearer sight of what the surgeon saw.
Swill straightened and pinned him with a wintry
eye. “Stand back, prentice! It is not necessary for you to
see so closely. Indeed, all of you—please give me space to
work.”
Threnody bridled. “Tell me, surgeon, can you mend
her?” she asked sternly. “Or should we wait for Doctor
Crispus?”
Swill straightened and, after a pause where he
clearly calculated his answer, said sourly, “I might serve under
him, young madam, yet I can tell you I have observed and performed
things Doctor Crispus would not credit as possible. What the
good doctor has spent a lifetime acquiring, I learned in months.
So, to you, dear, I say ‘yes’ to your first inquiry, and ‘no’ to
your second. This has become intolerable! If you want the best for
your sister-in-arms, then I must be allowed to labor in quietude.
Do me the service of leaving!”
Spreading his thin arms, Swill went to usher them
out of the surgery. To Rossamünd’s dismay, Threnody was clearly
reluctant to depart and made to stand her ground. Swill balked at
her stubborn immobility, and only after a foolish, pointless
standoff did she allow herself to be guided out to the less
gruesome side of the door. It closed with a deliberate thump.
“Do you know much of this Grotius Swill fellow,
lamp boy?” Threnody demanded.
“He seems competent enough, miss. I think he is
supposed to be under Doctor Crispus’ charge,” Rossamünd offered
helpfully, ignoring the girl’s imperious tone. “I must confess I’ve
never been ill enough to need either his or the doctor’s
work.”
Threnody looked less than satisfied. “He did not
seem to be under anyone’s charge to me. He’d better do right: I
made no idle threat in there.”
Rossamünd was not in the smallest way impressed. “I
ought to return you to your Lady Dolours,” he said simply.
At the Lamplighter-Marshal’s duty room the smiling
registry clerk Inkwill greeted them.
“You’d best go in, m’lady.”
Threnody entered into the mystery of the duty room,
leaving Rossamünd without a word of thanks or farewell.
“You might want to idle here, Prentice Bookchild,”
suggested Inkwill kindly. “I think that young lass will be needing
more guidance shortly.” This was an unwelcome hint, or so Rossamünd
thought, that he and his fellows might have to put up with this
pompous peerlet for a good sight longer.
As he waited an unwelcome pressure built in his
bladder, but Rossamünd dared not leave. Instead he paced the
Forward Hall uncomfortably back and forth, pressure growing, until
the door opened with a bang. Sergeant Grindrod emerged from the
duty room looking grave. He nodded brusquely, said nothing and
moved on. Soon after,Threnody stalked out, followed by Dolours and
the Lamplighter-Marshal himself. “What say you, young fellow? We’re
going to have a lady in our midst!”
The Lamplighter-Marshal had clearly come to his
decision. Threnody was to be the first girl prentice at
Winstermill.