It took a few nauseated moments for the prentice to realize he was not in fact being boiled alive in an enormous bottomless cauldron, but lay pinned in tangled blankets on a lumpy horsehair mattress in a freezing cell in the basements of the Imperial outpost of Winstermill. As the rousing groans of the other prentices coughed across the gap between cells, Rossamünd dragged the small chest away from the cell door. What was it I saw in Swill’s apartment? he fretted. Do people know about his room up there? Those were mighty strange books ... and what about that flayed and pinned-out skin? Do I need to tell anybody about it? But who to tell? At that moment a larger problem loomed, driving these unsettling things from his thoughts: the Domesday pageant-of-arms.

The ritual of Domesday for those under Imperial Service at Winstermill was a military formality of unquestionable antiquity. Every Domesday morning, the whole fortress turned out on the Grand Mead, all bearing arms before the main building in a pageant of flags, polish and rich, bright harness. Two-and-a-half hours of marching and speeches, it was a show of strength of which Rossamünd had quickly grown weary. He had once dearly wanted to see such spectacles: an array of soldiery gathered as if ready for battle. Watching was one thing but participating quite another. To march in a parade was a ponderous and worrying chore where evolutions must be well performed or impositions were imposed.

Sitting shivering on the edge of his cot, he looked forlornly at his unprepared harness. Metal must be polished with pipe clay and galliskins whitened, boots and belt blacked and brightened. Denied the opportunity last night, Rossamünd had to do his best to prepare now, which meant skipping breakfast. With sinking wind he could hear the other prentices stepping singly or in twos up the stairs of the cell row on their way to eat.

Threnody appeared at his open cell door, already washed and fed, immaculate in her perfectly presented mottle. “Well, a good morning to you, lamp boy,” she said, with a supercilious grin. “Not ready, I see.” She sniffed the night-stale air of the cell and pinched her nose. “Has someone been using you to wipe out the inside of a lard vat?” she exclaimed in an affectedly nasal voice.

Rossamünd blushed deep rose.

“You’d better get your pace on or you’ll never be ready,” Threnody continued unhelpfully. “I have heard how these things go: you’ll be censured, brought before a court-martial, and stretched out on a Catherine wheel if you go out looking less than perfect.” She shook her head.

Rossamünd knew she was just being painful, though certainly more pots-and-pans could be expected for a slovenly showing out.

Threnody huffed and put her hands on her hips as he was struggling to fold his cot corners. “Leave off, lamp boy!” she insisted. “I’ll do that!You just set to your clobber.”

The girl worked a modest wonder, folding the corners on the bed neater, pulling the sheet and blanket tighter and smoothing the pillow better than Rossamünd knew was possible. All extraneous items went into the bed chest, all inspected items arranged in regulation order on the small stool in the corner. Rossamünd’s cell had never looked so deftly ordered.

“Turn out for inspection!” came Under-Sergeant Benedict’s warning cry. There was a boisterous clatter as all the prentices scurried to their cells from the mess hall or wherever they had been.

Threnody quit the room without another word or even a glance back.

Fumbling buckles and buttonholes, Rossamünd finished dressing in a flurry, still wrestling with his quabard and his baldric as he took his place at the doorpost. Teeth rubbed with a corner of a bedsheet, hair combed with his fingers, he stood at attention by his door with only moments to spare.

Grindrod ducked his head to enter Rossamünd’s cell, and looked about, betraying the slightest surprise at its excellent state. He bounced a carlin off the blanket pulled and tucked drum-taut across Rossamünd’s cot. “All is in order, Prentice Bookchild,” he said after he had peered into every cavity of the tiny quarter. “As it should be. Move out to the Rear Walk and make ready for the pageant.”

Assembling with the rest along the tree-lined pathway of the Cypress Walk on the southern side of the manse, Rossamünd mouthed an earnest “thank you” to Threnody. To this she responded with the slightest suggestion of a curtsy, then snapped on a serious face as Grindrod stalked past to check the prentices’ dressing. With a cry the sergeant-lighter took his twenty-two charges out to form upon the Grand Mead, to take their place at the rear of the pageant. Before them a crowd of much of Winstermill’s inhabitants were also gathering in fine martial order, rugged against the cold.

Marching and standing with the companies of pediteers, peoneers, artillerists and thaumateers there were very few lampsmen—not even a platoon, seltzermen included. Most able-bodied lighters had been sent east, needed out on the road proper to replace the steady—and increasing—losses from the various cothouses.Yet that small, aged group stood in their place bearing their fodicars proudly, resplendent in the rouge and or and leuc—red and gold and white—of the Haacobin Empire, and glossy black thrice-highs. Only Assimus and Puttinger looked a little worse for wear, their evolutions poorly handled.

Formed on the soldiers’ left was a veritable army of bureaucratical staff: clerks, under-clerks, registers, bookers, secretaries, amanuenses, file boys. Each pageant made Rossamünd more aware of the diminishing ranks of lighters and the swelling number of clerks.

Rooks cawed from the pines by the Officers’ Green, spry sparrows and noisy miner birds hopped and flitted about the battlements, watching on shrewdly. The thin flags borne by color-parties at the front of each collection whipped and cracked in sympathy with the winds that rushed spasmodically across the Mead, joining the great ponderous snapping of the enormous Imperial Spandarion billowing above the gatehouse.

At his very first pageant, Rossamünd had trembled at the sheer number of folk gathered, at the steady pounding din of feet marching on the quartz gravel and at the stentorian hooting arrogance of flügelhorn, fife and snare.Yet now he was inured to the martial spectacle. It surprised him how quickly he could reconcile such astounding wonders and think them a workaday commonplace.

All the soldiers and their commanding officers were now gathered on the Grand Mead, decked in their finest.

“Stand fast!” came the cry from Sergeant-Master Tacpharnias.

With a rattling shuffle, the lighters, soldiers and staff came to attention as the seniormost officers strutted peacock-proud up on to a temporary podium—erected every Domesday for just this purpose—and stood before the assiduously ordered soldiery. It was the task of the highest ranked to take turns addressing the parade, and first always was the Lamplighter-Marshal. Although he was a peer of some high degree, in his soldierly simplicity the Marshal was unlike many of those standing with him.They were stiff and starched, their rich, finicky, bragging uniforms boasting of more in themselves than they really possessed.

His volume modulating with the breezes, his words punctuated by the calling of the birds, the Lamplighter-Marshal spoke loudly and confidently about the details of the routines of Winstermill, on subjects almost everyone had heard before. He reminded them of duties botched and the need for vigilance, for care, for the particular regard of one another. The pageant listened dutifully, for most loved their dear Marshal and knew these things needed to be said. However, their attention became genuine when the marshal-lighter turned to the disconcerting excesses of bogle and nicker.

“These theroscades have now become an ever-increasing problem,” he said gravely. “Almost each day reports come to me and I am applied to for aid.Yesterday I learned that the whole 2nd Lantern-Watch of Ashenstall was slain without quarter, not six nights gone, and also lamps pushed over on the Patrishalt stretch. Today already I have been informed of the taking of a family in the broad of day by the walls of Makepeace.”There was a chorused murmur of angry dismay among the lighters and pediteers, while the clerks remained quiet. “Aye, and no doubt ye are all informed of the assault witnessed five nights ago by our own barely breeched prentices.” The murmur grew to a growl, a rumble of solidarity and resentment. “And yesterday morning were yourselves witness—as was I—to the end of one of our doughty veterans on the claws of a blighted beast!”

The growl turned voluble.

“How dare the baskets try such things!”

“We’ll have our own back at ’em, just you wait!”

“My brothers!” The Marshal’s steady voice stilled them. “From loftiest officer to lowliest lighters’ boy, we must stand together—and we will. We have fought the long fight for eons beyond the telling of books. Humankind stands and will stand the longer if we stand together. Even now a faithful band seeks the very beast who slew our brother, as we, undaunted, continue to keep the way clear and safe. Lighters! We are the bulwark between our fellow men and the raging monstrous malice: we are the brave band who shall always light the way! Of discipline and limb!” he cried with a burst of steaming breath, jaw jutting proudly and a deadly gleam a-flashing in his eye.

“Of discipline and limb!” cried the many hundred throats before him, Rossamünd’s own among them.

Smiling with paternal grimness, the Lamplighter-Marshal took his place at the head of the line of most senior officers as the Sergeant-Major-of-Pediteers stepped forward with a rousing monologue of his own. After him came the bureaucrats, their ornamental wigs drooping curls almost halfway down their backs: the Quartermaster, the Compter-of-Stores, the rotund works-general, each complaining about some unheeded quibble of clerical detail or neglected civil nicety. Last of all was the Master-of-Clerks. With saccharine gentility and that never-shifting ingratiating smile, he droned about some new bit of paperwork required, some new process to record the change of watches. At times he would say things that Rossamünd did not understand but had the vast plethora of clerks chuckling knowingly. As the bee’s buzz went, the clerk-master was the darling of the bureaucrats of Winstermill. They looked up to him—so Rossamünd had learned—not just as their most senior officer, but as a genius of perpetual administrative reinvention. His only joys were the minutiae of governance and refining of systems that already worked.Tending to the clerical quibbles of fortress and highroad Rossamünd had heard Assimus and Bellicos (when he had lived) griping to each other—Podious Whympre was getting a better grasp upon the running of the manse than the overworked Lamplighter-Marshal.

Near the Master-of-Clerks—as always—was Laudibus Pile, lurking at the back of the podium, looking out over the pageant with narrowed, quizzing eye. For a beat Rossamünd was sure the falseman had fixed him with his lie-seeing eyes. The prentice was held in this distant interrogation till Pile seemed to see what he sought and, satisfied, looked for another to play this game upon.

Piebald gray clouds stretched over them from horizon to horizon like a roof on the day. Beneath these drifted smaller, knobbled cumulus blown up by southern winds, increasing the impression of a vaporous ceiling. Cold clouds these were, but not rainy ones. With the winds came the faintest scent of the Grume, the great bay to the south. Breathing deeply of this sweet-yet-acrid hint, Rossamünd could have sworn he heard carried with it the faintest wailing of whimbrels—the elegant, scavenging gulls of the southern coasts. The great, hopeless longing to serve at sea sat like cold gruel in his bosom.

Snap! went the flags in the winds.

With a cry from the gate-watch that cut through the Master-of-Clerks’ chidings, the bronze gates were swung open and a glossy red and brown coach rushed through with all the self-importance of a post-lentum. It was a dyphr, a small carriage pulled by two horses, its sides raised and roof lowered.

“Eyes front, you slugs!” barked Grindrod, as several boys turned their heads to see.

The vehicle dashed past the parade, peppering those standing nearest the drive with fine gravel flicked from its wheels, and pulled up sharply before the great steps of the manse.

Most of those on the podium made to continue, a bloody-minded show of their disregard for the impetuous arrival. Yet, as the Surveyor-of-the-Works finished his housekeeping plaints and before the Master-of-Clerks could return to reiterate, the Lamplighter-Marshal stepped forward and, to general relief, ended proceedings prematurely. Finally, with a blare of horns and a rattle of toms, the pageant-of-arms was done.

Grindrod dismissed the prentices with a simple order of “Port arms!”—perhaps keen himself to be on with the vigil-day rest. “Master Lately, be sure to report to the kitchens,” he reminded Rossamünd with no evident satisfaction. With that the lamplighter-sergeant walked abruptly off to join other sergeants milling at the edge of the Grand Mead to watch the small carriage.

Released from the painfully motionless dumb show of the pageant, the delighted prentices hurried off to get ready for the jaunt to Silvernook, all interest in the dyphr forgotten in their eagerness to be away.

Rossamünd stayed. He was intensely curious to know of the passengers and in no hurry to start a long day of pots-and-pans.

Threnody too observed the carriage, her expression strangely intense. She gave a soft groan. “Yes, Mother, I have been a good girl . . .”

Rossamünd looked askance at her.

She appeared not to have noticed he was there. He gave a subtle cough.

Threnody nearly betrayed her surprise, but with a haughty toss of raven tresses recovered. She cocked an eyebrow emphatically at the lentum and said bombastically, “Who is it that has so quickly come in yonder conveyance, you want to ask? Why, it’s my mother, come to chastise her wayward daughter no doubt, and sermon me on the honor of our clave.”

“Your mother?”

“Indeed. She cannot leave me be for a moment! I am not a week gone and she is come to crush me back into her shape.”

The Lamplighter-Marshal now approached the carriage with Inkwill and a quarto of troubardiers. He was followed by the Master-of-Clerks and that man’s attendant crowd. Dolours too had appeared, walking over from the Officers’ Green, her favorite spot it seemed, from where she must have been watching the entire pageant unheeded.Two calendars had already emerged from the dyphr clad in the mottle of the Right of the Pacific Dove, and they acknowledged the bane’s approach with subtle hand-signs. Rossamünd recognized one as Charllette the pistoleer, though the other he did not know. Standing proud upon the manse steps, the marshal-lighter greeted the passenger within the carriage with elegant manners, giving a gallant bow as he handed her out.

“Well betide you, O Lady Vey. A hale welcome to you, August of the Columbines, and to your attendants, from we simple lighters.” His declaration was gracious without being fawning.

The last passenger, a woman with hard eyes, hooked nose and a sardonic curl to the corners of her mouth, emerged and responded with equal decorum. “Well betide you, sir,” the Lady Vey enunciated beautifully. She was tall, with black hair the hue of her daughter’s, yet hers was as straight as Threnody’s was curly. Like everyone that morning, she was dressed against the chill in a thick mantle of precious, fur-lined silk with a sumptuous fitch of bristling white dove feathers about her neck and shoulders. Lady Vey stepped away from the dyphr with all the poise and arrogance of a peer. She glared at the lowering sky and pulled her mantle close with a twirling, theatrical flicking of its hems.

So that was the Lady Vey, the great august of a calendar clave. So that was Threnody’s mother.

“Ah! There is my laude, the Lady Dolours,” the woman declared with a tight smile.

“Always her first, isn’t it, Mother?” Threnody muttered. “Never a kind thought or concern for me . . .”

Dolours bowed low, with apparent deep and genuine respect.

“She has been abed with fever, gracious August,” the Lamplighter-Marshal declared. “But our locum has seen to her as best he can.”

“And Pandomë, my handmaiden?” The august looked at the faces about her. “I hear she is badly hurt.”

“Your handmaiden mends well in the infirmary . . . and your daughter too has been installed safely in her new role. We are glad to have her among us.”

“Yes, very good.” The Lady Vey looked over her shoulder and gazed around slowly. She saw her daughter immediately, as if she knew where she was all along. Something profound and complex transmitted between mother and daughter, something beyond Rossamünd’s comprehension. For all her tough talk and showing away, Threnody seemed to flinch, and hung her head in uncharacteristic defeat. The Lady Vey swept up the manse steps, unheeding of the bureaucrats and the attendants all deferring a pace to give her room as she slid past.

Threnody rolled her eyes, bravado quickly returning. “Off to my executioners,” she said with ill-feigned indifference.

Rossamünd frowned and blinked. “Pardon?”

“My mother is never happy with me,” she sighed. “And I go to find out just how unhappy she is . . .”

“Oh.”

Hardening her face and hiding her dismay, Threnody obeyed some invisible command and left to join the new arrivals.

Left alone as the day-trippers left for Silvernook, Rossamünd went his reluctant way to the kitchens.

Mother Snooks did not want to see him. Looking haggard, she dismissed the young prentice from her sight almost as soon as he entered. “Be on ye way! Whatever wicked crimes ye have to serve yer wretched day atonin’ for, it won’t be done here. Go!”

Knowing full well that Grindrod had just departed on a south-bound lentum, Rossamünd was puzzled as to what to do next. It was tempting to exploit this as a twist of fortune and take an easy day after all. However, if he did not serve one imposition now, he would only have to serve two later. Knocking at the sergeants’ mess door, he asked Under-Sergeant Benedict instead.

“Well, Master Bookchild,” the under-sergeant said, stroking his chin, “we must find you another task, else our kindly lamplighter-sergeant might set you more. If the Snooks won’t have you, then perhaps Old Numps will.”

“Who?” Rossamünd asked.

“He’s a glimner working down in the Low Gutter.You’ll find him in the lantern store, Door 143, cleaning lantern-panes. You can clean them with him—a nice simple task for a vigil-day imposition.”

Rossamünd felt anxious. He had heard of the mad glimner in the Low Gutter. It was the same fellow Smellgrove had been telling of at Wellnigh.

“Be on your way, lad,” Benedict instructed, “and work with Numps till middens. I’ll report to Grindrod that your duty—we’ll call it panel detail—was served. Don’t look so dismayed.”

Rossamünd tried to blank his face of worry.

Benedict smiled and scratched the back of his cropped head. “The glimner might have the blue ghasts from a tangle with gudgeons, but from what I hear the fellow is harmless.”

Rossamünd did not share the under-sergeant’s confidence.