Despite a gathering storm roiling to the south, Rossamünd did not hurry. He took time to stroll through the Low Gutter, fascinated by this hurry-scurry place. There were many here who rarely participated in a vigil-day rest. Great fogs of steam seeped from doorway seals and boiled from the chimneys of the Tub Mill, which stood on the other side of a wide cul-de-sac at the east end of the Toxothanon. It was a-bustle with fullers entering and leaving, burdened with bundles of laundry in varying states of cleanliness. The prentice stood aside for a train of porters hefting loads of clean clothing back to the manse, wondering if any of his own clobber was among them.

Crossing a wide cul-de-sac, the All-About, and passing by the Mule Row, a neat three-story block of servant housing, Rossamünd could hear the hammering of a smith or a cooper, and with this the sawing of a carpenter. In the narrow lane beyond, muleteers trotted their mules in and out of the ass manger, mucking their stalls, scrubbing the animals, feeding them. Beyond the manger rose the near-monumental mass of the magazine, where much of the manse’s black powder was stored. This structure was said to have ten-foot-thick walls of concrete but a roof of flimsy wood, there only to keep out rain. If there was ever an explosion, it would be contained by the walls and erupt through this frangible top far less harmfully into the air.

Dodging a mule and its steaming deposit, Rossamünd made his way across the street to where two besomers sat beneath an awning determinedly binding straw with wire, making ready for brooms.

“Well-a-day to you, young lampsman.What can we do for you?” one of the men called as the prentice approached.

“Hello, sirs,” said Rossamünd, and touched his forehead in respect. Almost everyone in Winstermill was of superior rank to a prentice-lighter. “I seek the lantern store and Mister Numps.”

A queer look passed between the two besomers.

“Do you, then? Well, just keep on your way past us, past the well, and the magazine, through the work-stalls and behind the pitch stand—that large hutch yonder there.You’re looking for the big depository that’s built right against the east-end wall.You want to go through Door 143.”

Bidding thanks, Rossamünd followed the friendly directions and found himself before a low wooden warehouse built beneath the shadow of the Gutter’s eastern battlements. On the rightmost door he found a metal plate that read:

Even as the prentice approached the door the rain suddenly arrived, falling quick and hard. Unprotected by any eave or porch, Rossamünd ignored all polite custom, opened “143” without a knock and ducked inside.

The depot beyond was truly the lantern store, he discovered, as his sight adjusted to the scant light. On either side of him were shelves, ceiling-high and sagging with all the equipment needed to mend and maintain the vialimns or great-lamps. Rows of lamp-bells without their glass stood on their collets in a line or hung on hooks from the roof beams. Whole wrought lantern-posts were laid flat in frames, ready to replace any ruined by time or the action of monsters. There were rolls of chain for mending the winds and with them spools of wire. At the end of this crowded avenue of metal and wood hung a massive rack of tools used for repair work. Chisels and heavy saws, sledgehammers, crowbars, mallets, rivet molds, powerful cutters and clamps and other devices were arranged upon it, all for the singular problems a seltzerman might face.

Despite the rain hammering on the lead-shingle roof, Rossamünd could make out a small, infrequent tinkling in the gloom, like two people touching glasses at a compliment. He could not fathom why some happy pair might be taking a tipple in the dim lantern store. Curious, he followed the sporadic noise deeper into the store. A low, lonely singing, true in tone, deep yet sweet, came through the dust and tools.

Beguiled, Rossamünd stepped out from among the shadows and equipment and into light. An old-fashioned great-lamp lit the space, with seltzer so new it glowed the color of summer-bleached straw. Cluttered about it was a motley collection of damaged and ruined bright-limns, great-lamps, flares, oil lanterns, even a corroded old censer like those that burned at the gate of Wellnigh House. Right in the middle of it all was the singer. He was alone, sitting on a wicker chair and bent over an engrossing task. He hunched strangely in his seat, his face a dark profile against the seltzer light, his legs pulled up oddly in front. His buff-colored hair was in an advanced state of thinning, and what little he possessed grew lank and thin to his jawline. He was winter-wan, and glimpses of his pallid skull gleamed in the clean light.

There was another “chink,” and the prentice saw the fellow put a small pane of glittering glass upon a stack and then, with the same hand, replace this with another dull piece.This he placed in his lap and, still with the same hand, tipped grit paste from a clay jar on to a cloth laid out on a broad barrel. He did something remarkable then. He put down the jar and, with a deft movement of his leg, picked up the cloth between nimble toes and began to polish. He used his foot—bootless and stockingless even on this inclement day—as easily as another might use a hand.

“H-Hello,” Rossamünd said softly.

The fellow hesitated only briefly then kept polishing, round and round with his toe-gripped cloth. “I felt you there a-shuffling,” he said quietly, almost a whisper, so desperately fragile that Rossamünd stepped closer to hear it better. “Have you come to help me or to hurt me?”

“I—ah . . . to help, I hope.” The prentice smiled nervously to show that he was not a threat.

“You smell like a helper” was the baffling reply.

Thrown by this, Rossamünd stuttered, “Um . . . A-are you M-Mister Numps?”

The fellow looked up and blinked languidly once, showing a shadowy preview of a lopsided face. Rossamünd tried not to gasp or start in alarm, yet he still took an involuntary backward step. The fellow’s face, from the right-hand brow and down, was a-ruin with scars. His cheek was collapsed, the right-side corner of his mouth torn wider than it should have been. The cicatrice flesh went farther, down the man’s neck, mostly hidden by his collar and stock.

“No one has called me ‘mister’ for three years,” Numps said with a sad inward look, speaking with that gentle voice from the left side of his mouth. “But I was a ‘mister’ before. Mister Numption Orphias, Seltzerman 1st Class . . . hmm, that’s who I was before. Just Numps now.”

“Ah . . . well, hello, Mister Numps. I’ve been set duties with you.”

The glimner frowned thoughtfully. “All right then,” he said mildly, and went back to fastidiously polishing the pane in his lap, pressing hard at some stubborn grime. Rossamünd could see that these stacks of glass panes were for the frames of the lamps and lanterns, big and small.

“What can I do, sir?” Rossamünd looked about uncertainly.

“Well, you can tell me what your name is, sir,” Numps re-turned, fumbling and dropping his cleaning rag, then picking it up again with a bare foot.

Rossamünd forgot himself a moment, transfixed by this simple, uncommon action.

“My name is Rossamünd, Rossamünd Bookchild, prentice-lighter.”

“Hello to you, Rossamünd Bookchild, prentice-lighter, lantern-stick.” Numps smiled shyly then frowned. “Oh, wait. That’s not polite. Shouldn’t say ‘lantern-stick’ to a prentice, should you? Just Rossamünd then, Mister Rossamünd,” he finished, grinning bashfully. “Aye?”

“Aye!” Rossamünd returned the grin. This surely was no madman, just a simple, gentle fellow. He reached out his hand for shaking.

Numps sprang from his seat, the pane falling to splinter on the boards. His broken face was aghast, wide eyes dashing up and down from Rossamünd’s friendly limb to the prentice’s horrified expression.

It was only then that Rossamünd realized the fellow’s right arm was missing and not just the arm but the entire shoulder too. Not knowing what else to do, Rossamünd dropped his hand. “I’m so sorry . . . ,” he mumbled.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” Numps whimpered and begun to shuffle those vulnerable bare feet about in the shards smashed over the floor. “Oh dear, Numps is dead.”

“No! Stop!” Rossamünd cried. “You’ll cut yourself.”

Yet this just seemed to distress Numps more, and he continued to shuffle and murmur, “Oh dear, oh dear . . .” A pan and brush were handy, propped against the shining great-lamp. Rossamünd snatched these up and flicked the broken glass from the floor and into the pan as quickly as he could. Yet he was not fast enough to stop the glimner from cutting himself badly, and the man began to splish about in puddlets of his own blood.

“Mister Numps! Please sit, sir.” Rossamünd tried to nudge the fellow away from harm. He held him off with his elbow and swept up the remaining shards from beneath Numps’ feet, brushing up blood with them. “You must sit down, sir, please! Or step away!” Not seeing any other course, Rossamünd stood and gripped the man by one shoulder and what remained of the other and shoved him back with surprising ease against the wicker chair.

Numps sat heavily without resistance, saying over and over, “Oh dear, oh dear, so much red. Oh dear, oh dear, ol’ Numps is dead . . .”

“We must get your feet seen to by Crispus—no, wait, he is gone away . . .” Rossamünd managed to wrestle Numps’ feet into a better position to see their injuries. His right foot was slashed with small cuts, especially between the toes, and the blood flowed easy and terribly free. His left foot had suffered only minor scratches. “I’ll take you to Mister Swill—”

“No!” Numps screeched. “Not the butcher and his butcher’s thoughts!” He wrenched his feet from Rossamünd’s grasp. The prentice was knocked against the barrel, bumping his head painfully. The glimner’s own chair tipped and fell, sending Numps sprawling head over end with a flail of limbs. He lay on the boards, his wounds still bleeding free.

“But you need to have your foot mended,” the prentice pleaded.

“No! No no no . . . ,” Numps insisted in return and began to sing. “Too much red, Numps is dead . . .”

Rossamünd sat for an exasperated pause, rubbing the smarting egg already swelling at the back of his head. He could not see how he could force Numps to do anything the man did not want. I’ll fix him myself, then. I’ll use my salumanticum!

He grabbed at the nearest, cleanest looking rags and pressed them to Numps’ bare foot, insisting the man hold them there. “I will be back with potives. Just press firm till then!” he said rapidly and, forgetting his hat, dashed up the avenue of metal and out Door 143. The rain, prodding him like fingers upon his crown, hurt his bruised scalp. The inclement weather had driven all others indoors.The windows of the Low Gutter glowed red, orange, yellow, green, while the noise of working still rang out above the fall of water.

Rossamünd was quickly soaked as he dashed up the nearest stair to the Grand Mead, his hasty feet splicker-splack splicker-splack in the quickly growing puddles, his thoughts tripping with him, I didn’t mean to scare him, I didn’t mean to scare him . . .

Across Evolution Green he ran, all the way down the Cypress Walk, turned right through the Sally at the side of the manse and dripped water all along the polished floor and down the steps to his cell. His salumanticum always sat beside his bed chest. He took it up and made hasty inventory of its contents. What he needed most was missing: the black powder called thrombis that made wounds clot rapidly. It was all used on Pandomë’s wounds. Indeed, he had attempted to restock his salt-bag soon after the attack on the calendars, but was still waiting for the correct permission papers from Grindrod.

“Off to the dispensury, then,” he muttered to himself, and ran out of his cell and up the steps again. “Surely they’ll give some to me for an emergency!”

The dispensury was accessed from the infirmary. Entering, Rossamünd recognized Pandomë in a nearby bunk, despite the bandages that hid most of her face. She was still senseless. With a shudder, the prentice thought of Numps’ ruined features.

From the other end of the long room Surgeon Swill glanced at Rossamünd dismissively at first, then beadily, discomfortingly, causing the prentice to hesitate. Yet the surgeon said nothing and returned his attention to an attending epimelain.

Through the dispensury door was a small white anteroom with a barred window at the farther end. He stepped up to this dispensury window.

It was not attended.

A velvet rope hung by, and the prentice gave this two hearty tugs, which set a hidden bell to violent ringing. Standing on tiptoes, Rossamünd peered through the bars. From the aisles of boxes, bottles, drawers and shadows emerged a sharp-nosed, flabby-jowled fellow with a high collar and a crotchety, querulous mien. This was the almonder, Obbolute Fibullar, script-grinder and assistant to Volitus—Winstermill’s dispensurist. He was a difficult fellow, about as opposite in temperament to Craumpalin as Rossamünd reckoned possible. The prentice cleared his throat and, as confidently as he could, made his request.

“What d’you need thrombis for, lantern-stick, coming in here to drip and dribble all over my floors and on to my counter?” Obbolute leaned toward the bars and glared down at him. “Are you bleeding?”

“No, sir. I am run out of thrombis,” Rossamünd returned, startling himself with his own, unexpectedly “what-else-do-you-reckon” manner. He held up his salumanticum as evidence.

The dispensury door swung, but Rossamünd, intent on getting the needed potive, ignored this.

“You can wave that salt-bag about and gum away rudely all you like, young fellow.” The obstructive almonder sat back. “I’ll need a chit of authority from your commanding officer.”

“But . . .”

“Aye, aye, always ‘but,’ ” Obbolute mocked. “No chit, no parts! That’s the way it runs here. Time to learn it, don’t you think?” He looked up beyond Rossamünd, dismissing the prentice with that single gesture. “Ah, welcome back among us once more, sir. How went the course? Did you get the basket?”

Rossamünd looked up quickly and straight into the mildly amused red and blue eyes of Sebastipole. The prentice had no notion that the coursing party had returned.

“Well, my boy,” he said, ignoring the almonder, “glad to see you again. I have just come back from the hunt. A grim event when all was done.”

“Hello, Mister Sebastipole,” Rossamünd replied. There was no time for chatter. Mister Numps’ foot must be attended to. His thoughts spun quickly. Terrible glimpses of Numps dead in a puddle of red ran through his head. “Please, sir. I need thrombis urgently.”

Sebastipole looked at him strangely. He turned to Obbolute, producing a fold of paper. “I will be needing pule-blande, a six-months’ dose, and the same of gromwell too, for all it’s worth. And . . . pass me your stylus, man.”

“Of course you will, sir.” The dispensurist half turned, ready to fetch these potives, all polite eagerness to this reader-of-truth. He pulled the pencil from behind his ear and pushed it through the bars.

“And,” the leer continued, looking down to Rossamünd again as he scratched words on to the fold, “a salumanticum’s worth of thrombis too, or any other siccustrumn you might have.”

Rossamünd could have cheered for joy and thrown his arms about the leer.

Obbolute’s eyes narrowed as Sebastipole handed paper and pencil through the barred gap. A glimpse of temper trembled across the assistant’s brow. He clearly wanted to contradict this request, yet how could he? A chit had been provided and, more so, the leer was his superior.

“I, ah—well, I,” he spluttered, his thoughts clearly at war, “what were you needing that last item for, sir?” He looked narrowly at Rossamünd.

“Because this lighter needs it and you will not give it him,” Sebastipole returned, his sangfroid as much as his rank impossible to argue with. “Perhaps you will give it to me?”

A hoarse grumble from his throat and a pointed pause was about all the contrariness Obbolute dared as he filled the order. The leer took the potives with a solemn thank-you that the almonder did not acknowledge. As they left the infirmary, Sebastipole gave Rossamünd the thrombis.

“So tell me, young Rossamünd,” he said, “how have you recovered from our excitement upon the road?”

At any other time the prentice would have been all for question-and-answers and exploring his confusions, but this was not that occasion.

“I am well, sir . . . ,” he answered, looking over his shoulder down the passage to his path back to Numps.

The leer squinted at him sagely. “Indeed? So tell me, what gives you such cause for haste?”

“Someone has cut himself terribly, Mister Sebastipole, and I need to get to him right quick to stop the bleeding!”

“Why did you not bring this ‘him’ to the infirmary?” Sebastipole pressed.

“Because he most definitely refused to come, sir . . . refuses to be seen to by Swill—um, Surgeon Swill, I meant.” Rossamünd could not obey forms of right conduct any longer. “I really must go now, sir—please give me leave.”

“Yes, yes! In fact I shall do one better.” Sebastipole put a gloved hand on Rossamünd’s shoulder. “Lead on and I will help how I can. Perhaps persuade this fellow to get to the infirmary where he belongs.”

Rossamünd dashed back out the Sally, into the rain and down to the Low Gutter, Sebastipole just one step behind.

“Where do you take us?” the leer called over the rush of falling waters. “Who is it that is hurt so urgently?”

Through gasps and rain, Rossamünd called over his shoulder. “To the lantern store”—puff—“Door 143”—wheeze— “It’s Mister Numps—he’s cut his foot with glass . . .” He almost staggered in a muddy puddle.

Sebastipole caught the prentice under his arm, saving him from the fall, and dragged him on. The leer quickened his stride, flying down the alley by the Pitch Stand, Rossamünd trying as best he could to keep pace.

Throwing back Door 143 and springing inside, they found Numps sleepy yet still holding the rags to his foot.

“Oh, Numption,” Sebastipole hissed.

Rossamünd was amazed at the genuine distress held in that expiration.

“Ready your thrombis, prentice—quick and steady. Now I understand your dilemma.”

Hands a-tremble, Rossamünd opened the box and brought out a small sack of the “bonny dust”—as Craumpalin used to call it.

“We must act apace!” The leer righted the toppled wicker chair and wrestled Numps’ leg upon it. “How did this happen?”

“I just went to shake his hand.” Rossamünd’s confession babbled out. “Just to make his friendship, and he jumped and started and the glass fell from his hand and smashed about his feet.”

Numps looked up with slow eyes. “Oh, Mister ’Pole, oh dear, you’re swimming in my red again . . . Oh dear, Numps is dead . . .”

“Yes indeed, Numps, I find you all bloody like before. Easy, now. We’ll fix you right, just like then.” Once more Rossamünd was struck by the gentle anxiety in Sebastipole’s voice. He never expected a leer might show such tenderness.

“There is glass still in the cuts,” the leer continued. “Do you have forceps? Or spivers?”

Rossamünd shook his head, but had a thought. “I spied pliers on the rack there though, sir,” he said, even as he went to fetch them. “Here, sir.”

“They will do.” Sebastipole snatched them. “With haste, Rossamünd, grip his leg under your arm and hold it firm and sure. This will not be easy—I am no man of physics.”

The prentice obeyed with alacrity.

Numps writhed and wailed as the leer poked and probed and tugged at the wounds. “Help me, sparrow-man! They tear me apart! Limb from limb!” The glimner cried, “Sparrow-man!” while Sebastipole shouted, “Don’t mind his calls, my boy, just hold him steady!” Rossamünd never let go of Numps’ ankle nor allowed his squirming to disrupt Mister Sebastipole’s delicate work.

“Bravo, my boy,” Sebastipole muttered as he pulled out a wicked-looking shard, “you have yourself a strong grip there.”

The make-do surgery was mercifully brief. With light-headed relief the prentice tapped hearty mounds of the thrombis on to a particularly nasty laceration under the knuckle of the big toe. It was from here that most of the blood had come. He watched as the dark powder quickly mixed with the gore, coagulating to a sticky, adhering mass wherever it did. When he was satisfied the thrombis had done its work, Rossamünd bound Numps’ foot as tightly as he could with all the swathes kept in his salumanticum. He sprinkled more thrombis between each bind till the box of it was all but empty and only Numps’ toe tips showed.

Dazed from pain and distress, Numps remained supine among the old lamps.

“When Crispus returns, I’ll ask him to come here and do what he can,” said Sebastipole. “Till then you’ll just have to hop about, Mister Numps. Fetch that handle cup.” He spoke suddenly to Rossamünd, and pointed to a ladle lying by a puncheon of water near at hand. “He will need fluid. One who has let free much blood always does.”

Rossamünd filled the cup and carefully brought it over.

Sebastipole let Numps drink with noisy thirsty gulps, cradling the glimner’s head as he did.

Crouching by, Rossamünd watched, feeling it all his fault. “I’m so . . . so . . . sorry for . . . ,” he tried.

“Don’t fret, prentice-lighter,” Sebastipole said. “Our Numps has never been right in the intellectuals since surviving a theroscade. He has hurt himself before. It was providential I met you when I did, wouldn’t you say? Had I not needed pule-blande so urgently I would have already been in a meeting with the Lamplighter-Marshal.”

“Will Mister Numps mend, sir?”

“Doctor Crispus cites it the worst case of malingering horrors he has ever encountered,” Sebastipole continued, putting a friendly hand on the glimner’s shoulder. “We do what we can, do we not, Mister Numps, but it just isn’t the same, is it?”

Clearly dazed, Numps still managed to answer. “No, Mister ’Pole, never the same, poor Numps, and poor glass too.” He started to look around the floor about him.

“You know Mister Numps well, Mister Sebastipole?” Rossamünd asked, feeling a sudden surge of affection for the leer, so different from the other leers the prentice had encountered.

“We are acquainted, yes,” Sebastipole said.

Rossamünd hoped he might say more and waited, but the leer showed no inclination to speak further. He stood, helping Numps to sit against the glowing great-lamp. The glimner was shivering, and the lamp offered no heat.

Retrieving his thrice-high from where it dropped, Sebastipole said, “Sit easy now, Numps. Don’t you tread on those clever feet of yours—we don’t want them to bleed again.”

To this Numps nodded slowly. “Poor Numps’ clever feet. You put me back together again, Mister ’Pole.”

“Indeed, we did what we could.” The leer looked pointedly at Rossamünd. “This young master and I shall find you a blanket.”

Rossamünd followed as he went to the farther end of the lantern store.

Sebastipole turned over a bright-limn sitting on a shelf and its soft glow soon revealed a pile of sacks neatly folded in a flimsy crate. He gathered several and deposited them in Rossamünd’s arms, declaring lightly and loudly, “These will answer nicely!” He fixed the prentice with his disconcerting eyes. “It was I who found him,” the leer said low and serious, “alone and horribly mangled after the other two seltzermen had been devoured or carried away.”

Rossamünd’s ears rang as his attention became very focused. “Devoured, sir? Carried away?” he said, equally softly.

“Yes, carried away.” Sebastipole paused, closing his eyes. “It was in the first year that our Master-of-Clerks arrived. I remember it so because one of his first acts was to insist on a thorough inspection of all the great-lamps along the road. Numps and others had been attending to a vialimn out east beyond the Heap, past the Roughmarch and Tumblesloe Cot. As you know, seltzermen go out in threes—two to work, one to watch with a salinumbus at the half cock—and return before the lantern-watch starts. But this day they did not arrive by the correct time, a remarkable thing, for as you know a lamplighter’s life is punctuality.” Wry and knowing, Sebastipole looked to Rossamünd, the blue of his eye showing strangely bright in the seltzer light.

The prentice was too intent on poor Numps’ story to notice this small joke.

“Though not normally enough to stop the work of a lantern-watch,” Sebastipole continued with a cough, “what they found sent them quickly back to Tumblesloe, half the lanterns still unlit. By East Sloe 10 West Dove 13 the seltzermen’s tools lay scattered, their cart shattered, its mule torn and mostly eaten, and too close for comfort, they could hear a horrible inhuman calling from the hills.”

Rossamünd let his breath out slowly. “Were you with the lamp-watch, Mister Sebastipole?”

“No, Rossamünd, I arrived the next day. Myself and Mister Clement and Scourge Josclin and a dragging party of pediteers, lighters and dogs. We did not have to go far to find poor Numps, though. He was sitting up against the same lamppost where the previous night only signs of attack had been present. His arm was gone, torn from his body at the shoulder. His face and jaw were badly gouged, yet somehow he managed to live, even to crawl back to the road. The cold must have kept him alive, freezing the flow of his terrible wounds. Before or since I’ve never known a man to survive such mortal harm.”

“Frogs and toads!” Rossamünd whispered in awe.

“Indeed.” Sebastipole stood. “But it gets more remarkable still. For not only had a man so mortally mangled and comatose somehow pulled himself along for who knows how long, he had also bound his own wounds and stuffed the socket of his shoulder too, using grasses and leaves with an expertise not even a two-armed man might achieve. How he did this is a puzzle that still beggars solving . . . We bundled him back to Winstermill. He woke on the way, yammering from the horrors and saying such things as you heard him cry today, especially about that little sparrow-man. From what I know of it, Crispus fought to revive the man while Swill thought it more a mercy to let him languish and die.”

“What a merciless sod-botherer,” Rossamünd growled. “Little wonder Mister Numps refused to go to the infirmary with only the surgeon about.”

“Indeed.” Sebastipole stroked his chin. “Fortunately for Numps, Doctor Crispus is the senior man and a brilliant physician. Though I wonder if it would not have been the greater mercy to let poor Numption pass.”

Rossamünd shuddered, glad never to have faced such an impossible choice. “What of the other seltzermen?” he could not help but ask. “Did you ever find them?”

“We searched as much as we dared.” The leer rubbed at his neck like a man exhausted. “Josclin followed me as I followed the smell of the slot and sight of the drag far up into Hallow Sill. It was not like any monster’s trail I had pursued before: foreign and much fouler. It was a trace I had only smelled once before, but knew only too well. It was gudgeons. For a week we searched but found only torn clothing and discarded equipage. The calendars of Herbroulesse joined us for a time, speaking of a mighty combat heard in the woods beyond their walls, and of driving off some terrible fear two nights before; but still there was no trace of the other men. I am sure they had been eaten, for the drag I spied through my sthenicon showed little hint of human traffic, and the slot smelled only of death and that evil revenant stink. We traced it back in hope of finding where the revers had come from. Yet the trail ended nowhere, out in the wilds of the southern marches of the Tumblesloes. We returned to Winstermill with nothing more than tatters and conjecture, though Lady Dolours searched on. A tenacious woman, she followed the foul, foreign trail far into marshy lands along the northern marches of the Idlewild, but she too returned with nothing.”

Rossamünd’s attention pricked at the sound of Dolours’ name. “The calendars helped you?” he asked.

“Indeed. I have worked with them from time to time, and they with me—especially the Lady Dolours—snaring corsers and commerce men, foiling the dark trades where we can, beating off the bogles and the nickers. It’s inevitable; in a ditchland everyone must cooperate or perish in their isolation.The Idlewild prevails because of their work as well as ours.” Sebastipole peered at Rossamünd.

“How did a gudgeon find a way out here?” asked Rossamünd. “Did it come from a hob-rousing pit?”

A cold and dangerous look set in Sebastipole’s weird eyes. “Not very likely. Such criminal and vile practices do not last long about here, my boy.”

“But I thought a dead monster was good whichever way it’s done?” Rossamünd spouted the usual dogma.

The leer regarded Rossamünd closely for a moment. “Some folk might say it’s so,” he said carefully, “but I don’t care for the justifications they offer on rousing a bogle against a gudgeon. Coursing monsters as we have done is a needful thing, but making sport of them, especially with something as abominable as a revenant, is useless and cruel. More so, it ties up the monies of men who can ill afford it and is ruinous to the lives of the wagerers who lose.” He stopped, took a breath. “We came down very hard on the lurchers after Numps’ theroscade.”

“Why the lurchers?”

“Because these are the beginning of the whole rotten chain of the dark trades. You can only get live bogles from the lurchers or human remains from the corsers. If you stop them, then you stop the therlanes, who then can’t supply the commerce men, who have nothing to give to the ashmongers, leaving them without stock to sell to the massacars or the rouse-masters.Try as we might, there have yet been other gudgeons marauding, though never again an assault on a lighter. Enough now! Let us tend again to the needs of Numps. I can hear him shuffling about. We have muttered overlong on his past and now should labor for his present, after which I must leave you to your duties as I attend to mine.”

Rossamünd returned with the leer, back to the clutter of lamps and lanterns. There Numps, against instruction, had moved to sit again in his wicker chair and, patiently humming, was polishing another lantern-window.