“Good lad,” he said. Lightbody tugged on its strap to test the repair, then patted a satchel of his own, showing a hand missing the third and fourth fingers. “Wise. We’ve all got one.”

Rossamünd nodded. “Why are there five of you?” he asked in a hush.

“Them city-scholars say it takes three fit fellows to best a single hob-possum” was the gruff return. “That’s all well and good for them and their books, but out here we reckon five of us stands a better chance. In truth there should be more . . .”

Lampsman Lightbody attached a bright-limn to the head of each of their fodicars, fixing the bottom of the small lamps—known as crook-lights—to the shaft to prevent them from swinging about noisily.

“Why do we not take a leer with us?” Rossamünd wondered aloud, looking worriedly at the thick airs.

“ ’Cause we don’t got one to take,” came the simple answer. “The Hall’s fellow is with his own lamp-watch, and Crescens Hugh—he being our own one-and-only lurksman—is off-watch. Even he needs his sleep.”

Another lighter named Aubergene stood before them. He was a much younger fellow with black hair, angular features similar to Sebastipole’s and a protruding gourmand’s cork that bobbed disconcertingly as he addressed them with suppressed, whispered enthusiasm. “Don’t you fuss too much about this soup, young fellows, it’s just Old Lacey,” he explained kindly. “It’s the fleermare. Comes in off the Swash and leaves everything dripping, but without it there’d be no water for us or the plants—it rains dead seldom about here. Take these . . . it’s phlegein,” he said to Threnody’s blank look at the small tubes the man held out to them, “or falsedawn if you like. In case you lose us. Just pull the hem.” He indicated a small silk protrusion on the bottle. “Strike the raised end on the ground and hold it high, well away from your face.”

Threnody went to refuse, tapping the fine-drawn arrow on her brow, as if it were an answer to everything.

Aubergene looked at the spoor with a slight hesitation. He puffed his cheeks out and in and said, “That’ll help you find us, lass, but not us you. Take it and let us get on.”

Sergeant Mulch led off, and as Rossamünd then Threnody followed the five bobbing lights out the heavy gates of Bleakhall, Rossamünd looked back at the barely visible mass of the Fend & Fodicar. He tried to guess which window Europe slept behind.

Leaving Bleak Lynche, it was impossible to reckon distances between lanterns. In the opaque fumes the beclouded nimbus-light of a great-lamp could be seen only when the watch drew very near. The assiduous lampsmen worked, stoutly feeling their way one great-lamp to the next, each lighter nothing more than the suggestion of a shadow and a bobbing globular glow, communicating only rarely in terse whispers. Rossamünd had never been anywhere so completely blank: anything could leap out and snatch them away. Ears were a-ring with anxious straining, eyes bugging to keep sight of the will-o’-the-wisp gleam of the leading crook-lights. His throat was in a constant constriction of dread; he did not know how the lamplighters of the Frugelle ever managed to do their work without blubbering into an overwrought mass. No amount of practice on the Pettiwiggin could have prepared him for this. It was a relief to learn that neither he nor Threnody was expected to wind any of the lamps on this blind morning. Nevertheless, he waited impatiently for each lamp to be wound, one—two three—up, down-two-three, one—two—three—up, down-two-three, cringing at the ringing clatter of the cogs and chains. Though the mechanical sounds were muffled by the turgid airs, Rossamünd found them a clashing of cymbals in the tomblike silence, sure to attract some nasty lurker.

The all-too-sluggish encroachment of the new day’s growing light served only to illuminate the fog itself, making it pale and almost phosphorescent; a yawning whiteness where the only tangible thing was the hard-packed road grinding under his boot-soles. This luminous nothingness obliterated any sight of the crook-lights, and forced the lantern-watch to march closer than the regulation spacing.

Suddenly the column stopped.

Rossamünd could sense the lampsmen becoming very still.

The fellow immediately before him—Rossamünd thought it was Aubergene—crouched and indicated the young lighter do the same. Rossamünd obeyed and repeated the motion for the benefit of Threnody behind.

I am the very soul of stillness. He repeated Fouracres’ old formula. I am the very soul of stillness . . .

Motionless and listening, he understood almost instantly. Something was snuffling in the veiling murk off to the left, its shuffling movement faint yet obvious in the dry crackle of the stunted Frugelle grasses. Staring out into that awful blank, Rossamünd had a prodigious sense of the malign intent of this sniffling, searching something. He carefully, haltingly, squeezed a hand into his salt-bag, thankful for resorting its contents. He felt for the especially wrapped john-tallow—one of the unused gifts bestowed by Master Craumpalin when Rossamünd was still a foundling starting out. He withdrew it with fastidious care lest the oiled paper make a give-away rustling of its own. Working it free of the bag, he put the parcel on to the road and gingerly grasped two corners of the complex folds of the wrapping, careful not to touch the actual wax. All this he did by feel alone, his eyes busy looking into the impenetrable fog, darting left and right at each new noise.

Before him he could hear Aubergene ever-so-gently cocking some kind of firelock.

The snuffler was getting closer.

On the other side, Threnody was a hardly discernible shadow—was that her arm he saw reach for her temple?

With a sudden flick of wrist and fingers, Rossamünd pulled the wrapper apart, letting out the sweaty, unwashed smell, and, quick as fulgar’s lightning, flung the john-tallow, packaging and all, out into the cloudy soup. He could almost feel the attention of the malignant stalker catch the smell and follow the invisible arc of the flying repugnant. Sure enough, the sounds of scuffling moved away.

Oh, glory on Craumpalin’s chemistry! Rossamünd’s heart sang.

Aubergene did not appear to notice the young lighter’s action and the lighters stayed as they were for longer yet—Rossamünd’s senses frayed, his haunches aching—till as a man, they decided it was safe enough to push on. Not one mention was made of his deed; none had noticed.The young lighter had no way of knowing if it was the john-tallow that drew the sniffing thing away, and therefore he kept any boasts to himself.

Unexpectedly, only two lamps later, the vertical bulk of Wormstool materialized—they were arrived at last. The cothouse—if it could be called a “house”—was a tall octagonal tower topped with a flattened roof of red tiles a-bristle with chimneys. Entry was gained by the ubiquitous narrow flight of stone-and-mortar steps that bent about three faces of the tower as it climbed to a second-story door.

Rossamünd held his breath and squinted against the noxious fumes drizzling from the smoldering censer at the foot of the steps.

At the top, the thick cast-iron door opened on to a watch room. Entering, Rossamünd found an eight-sided hall, the walls slitted with loopholes, where watchmen periodically wandered from one to the next and mutely observed the land beyond. Not even the entry of the lantern-watch distracted them from their lookout.

In the very middle of the hall was a squat lectern, and behind this sat an uhrsprechman. Wet-eyed, limp-haired, the man looked all too ready for sleep, shuffling and settling papers clumsily at the close of his night-vigil. He watched the arrivals hawkishly, screwing up his face as he tilted his head back and peered over his glasses.

“ ’Allo, Whelpmoon,” the stocky, hairy under-sergeant named Poesides said to the fellow as they passed. “Ye look a mite piqued, me old mate. Just be glad you’ve not had to be out there this mornin’: pea soup so thick that a laggard couldn’t scry through it—and a stalking lurker thrown into the bargain.”

Whelpmoon nodded briefly, said nothing, and kept at his staring.

Looking beyond him, Rossamünd saw a great kennel occupying three whole walls which kept a pack of dogs: spangled whelp-hounds—giant, sleek-looking creatures that eyed Rossamünd suspiciously and let forth warning growls from their heavy-barred cage.

“Them daggies never takes to strangers,” Lampsman Lightbody chuckled.

From this room the lampsmen gained access to higher floors by a wooden stair at the left of the entrance. From it dangled a sophisticated tangle of cords and blocks, much as could be found on a vessel. Rossamünd asked what these were for.

“Ah,” answered Lampsman Lightbody eagerly, “these stairs are the genius of the major and Splinteazle our seltzerman—naval men, both of them, with cunning naval minds.” He nodded approvingly.

Rossamünd’s ears pricked at this mention of the Senior Service.

“It’s dead-on impressive,” Aubergene added. “You see there—that cord, how it leads up through that collet in the ceiling? If ever a nicker or some other flinching hob makes it in here and we need to retreat, we can pull levers up on the next floor connected to that cord and cause this whole construction to topple, leaving the foe stuck down here while we ply fire from on high.”

It was indeed “impressive”—as an idea at least. No sooner had Rossamünd ascended a few steps than the whole flight wobbled alarmingly, beams groaning, the rope tackle shaking. The lighters did not seem to notice, and climbed happily up to the floor above, while Threnody and he followed one careful step at a time, knuckles whitening on the worn-smooth banister.

Gratefully achieving the top, Rossamünd heard Aubergene declaring, “Our reinforcements all the way from Winstermill, sir—ain’t it nice to know we’re not forgotten?”

Rather than dwelling safely on the very top floor of the tower, as many officer-types might, Wormstool’s Major-of-House held office in the very next level; working with his day-clerk on one side and cot-warden on the other, all seated behind the same wide desk of thick, hard wood. It looked solid enough to serve as barricade and fire-position should need arise. Rossamünd could well imagine musketeers firing from behind it with their firelocks, shooting at some intruder who had managed to win its way up the rickety stairway.

The house-major was even better turned out than his subordinates—creaseless platoon-coat of brilliant Imperial scarlet and a black quabard so lustrous, with its thread-of-gold owl, it almost gleamed. The man was most certainly of a naval bent, for there were several scantlings of main-rams and cruisers pinned to the angled walls about him and a great covering of black-and-white checkered canvas on the floor, such as Rossamünd would expect to find in the day-cabin of a ram. The house-major stood with a fluent, perfectly military motion.

“Miss Threnody of Herbroulesse and Rossamünd Bookchild, Lamplighters 3rd Class, come from Winstermill Manse, sir,” Rossamünd said firmly as he stepped before the immaculate officer.

The house-major fixed them with mildly skeptical amusement. “Well, aren’t you a pair of trubb-tailed, lubberly blunderers?” he exclaimed in a trim and educated accent that gave no hint to his origins. “We’ve not received a brace of lantern-sticks in a prodigious long time, and neither have we received word to be expecting any! The dead of winter means infrequent mail and is an off time to be sending anyone so far—how long have you been prenticing for? I thought lantern-sticks weren’t deemed fully cooked till chill’s end.”

Rossamünd and Threnody looked to each other.

Threnody spoke up. “We were told that Billeting Day was done early because the road was in need of new lighters.”

“Is that rightly so?” Taking his seat, the house-major stared at her and, more particularly, her spoor. “It is not common to have one of your species make lighter, especially not one that is a tempestine too—are you not a little too new from the crib to be cathared?”

Threnody bristled but controlled her tongue. “Perhaps.”

The house-major held her with his steady gaze. “As it stands, we are thankful the Ladies of Columbris have the numbers to spare us one here.”

Bemused, Threnody gave half a curtsy.

“As to what you have been told regarding us,” the officer continued, “aye, new lighters we do need: a large quarto of doughty, veteran lampsmen to cover our losses, not a brace of new-burped lumps such as yourselves. Is that not so, Sergeant-Master?” he barked to the big, silver-haired cot-warden.

“Aye, sir.” The cot-warden smirked. “Though a company of the same would be better.”

“I’ve heard it said that the marshal-lighter is ailing,” continued the house-major. “Can he have decreased in his powers so much as to send you here?”

“Oh, it wasn’t the Lamplighter-Marshal, sir”—Rossamünd wrestled with the desire to cry out in the Marshal’s defense—“it was the Master-of-Clerks who sent us.”

In one breath the officer’s eyes widened, in another they narrowed. “Did he . . . ,” he said slowly. “Since when has that lickspittle been sending lighters or directing policy?”

“Since the Lamplighter-Marshal was shipped off to the Considine with a sis edisserum in his hand and ‘that lickspittle’—who now calls himself the Marshal-Subrogat—took the run of the manse,” Threnody stated tartly.

“Is that so, Lamplighter?” The house-major looked arch. “And I’d rather you addressed me as ‘sir’ or ‘house-major.’ ”

“Sir,” she added after only the briefest hesitation.

The day-clerk, who had been fossicking about in the newly arrived post-bag, passed a telltale red-leather dispatch over to the house-major.

“So the poor old war-dog has been called to account, has he?” the house-major continued. “The bee’s buzz has been that he was losing grip of the whole ’Way. In a fight he’s your man, but give him pens and paper and he’s all a-sea . . .Well, it’s of little use, by either hand,” he concluded, picking up the dispatch and opening it almost absently. “Most folk tend to declare this place hic sunt beluae—here be monsters—and forget us altogether.” He began to read.

Rossamünd shuffled his feet carelessly in the pregnant pause. How could they think the great man “poor” or “old”? However, like it or no, he was not about to set his commanding officer straight on the actual score of things.

“And here our glorious new Marshal-Subrogat confirms your report,” the house-major suddenly said, holding up the dispatch, “though I still challenge his wisdom for sending you lantern-sticks out early. This is where only the best and hardiest get billeted. I’d say it’s been an awfully long consult-a-ledger period of time since shining-new lampsmen 3rd class were ever billeted to us fresh out of the manse.” He rattled the letter. “But here you both are, out to proudly join the hardiest and most soldierly of all the lighters on the ’Way.” He fixed both newcomers with appraising scrutiny. “And that means we reckon they must have sent you to us because you’re the hardiest and most soldierly of all the lighters too.”

Swallowing pointedly, Rossamünd hoped he would be. “Aye, sir!” he said.

“Yes . . . sir,” said Threnody.

“Now I know you and your situation”—the house-major stood again—“I am Major-of-House Thyssius Grystle,” he said, bowing slightly to Threnody. “Also allow me to name Cot-Warden Hermogenës, or ‘Sergeant-Master’ to you.” The cot-warden was slightly advanced in years with gorgeous silver hair held back in a whipstock and an impressive scar across his forehead. “And Linus Semple, our day-clerk”—a typically short and slender fellow in clerical black, a deep green fronstectum jutting over his brow.

Both men stood and bowed to Threnody with civil niceness.

“Our watches are septenary, changing every Newwich, and none of this slovenly two-watch business either! There are three lantern-watches here, done in lots of two so there’s enough men on the road—and even then it’s a stretch. So! Wet as your backs might be, two more is still two more. Even though you arrived with the dimmers I’ll have you stay with the sluggards till you learn our idiosyncrasies—”

“Excuse me,” Rossamünd piped, “the ‘sluggards,’ sir?”

“Aye, young lighter, the sluggards—the day-watch, as opposed to the dimmers, who are the lantern-watch. You watch while they sleep! What have they been teaching you back thereward—playing at skittles?”

“Ah, no, sir—sorry, sir.” Rossamünd could almost feel Threnody rolling her eyes beside him.

House-Major Grystle’s expression relaxed. “You may take your ease now, Lampsmen 3rd Class, then get to light duties after middens. The cart from Mill to Stool is a long time traveling and I see no benefit from putting tired lighters needlessly to work. Sergeant-Master Hermogenës shall direct you to your final billet. I imagine that oily grub goose Squarmis is bringing your ox trunks and other dunnage?” he concluded with a knowing look.

“Aye, sir,” said Rossamünd.

“Carry on. Share your first breakfast with us and get your wind back today, for tomorrow—whatever old Grind-yer-bones might have had you doing—your life for the Emperor truly begins. Leave your Work Dockets with me, Lampsmen. Show ’em to their billets, Mister Harlock.”

The silver-haired Sergeant-Master took them higher into the tower, up another steep stair, this one of sturdy, immobile stone instead, gradually winding around the entire structure as it rose. From this proximity Rossamünd could well see the handsome scar—a cicatrice any warrior would wish to have on display, a visible proof of valor—and more particularly, the man’s unusually pale gray eyes, nearly silver—like his hair. “You might—like just now—hear some call me Harlock,” he said with a faintly Sedian accent, while they climbed, “on account of my hair. That’s a privilege you earn. For you two peepersqueeks it’ll just be Sergeant-Master, am I clear?”

“Aye, Sergeant-Master!”

The common-mess where mains was served was found upon this next floor, two levels higher than the front door, the region designated “the kitchens” sharing the octagonal space.The ceiling high above was choke-full with beams and struts and supports of dark, polished wood; as gorgeously complex an array as Rossamünd had seen before only at Bleakhall. In here, they were told, everyone ate together, whether lampsman 3rd class or Major-of-House. Other cot-fellows were already beginning to gather, and a muscular, rotund man worked the pots and ovens on the far “kitchen” side. The third floor above the entrance, holding heavy tools and small machines, was for specific labors: tinkering, weapon-smithing, harness-mending, lantern repairs and the like.There was also a coop of chickens—for eggs—with a cock whose dawning crow Rossamünd soon learned was far more effective for rousing out the day-watch than any amount of drumming.There were stores kept here high up from the reach of rats and it was obvious now why the ceiling of the common-mess—being also the floor of this level—was so oversupplied with supporting woodwork.

On the top floor they were shown the bunk-rooms, set high and safe from the ground. This level was divided into equal quarters by wooden “bulkheads”—movable walls of about eight feet in height that stopped well short of the beams of the roof above. In the quarter farthest from the stair was where Rossamünd and Threnody would be sleeping; sharing the quarter, so the sergeant-master said, with the other younger lighters—both in their early twenties: Aubergene Wellesley, whom of course they had met, and another fellow, Fadus Theudas, currently on house-watch. Rossamünd looked at the room that was to be his “home.” It was not as bare as the cells of Winstermill but gone was his privacy, his sleeping quarters to be shared again. Here the lampsmen were allowed to decorate their own spot, tack etchings and pamphlet-cuttings onto bed heads; have more than the standard issue of pillows or coverlets; and their own collection of other bed-furniture—stools, chests, side tables and the like. He realized too that though there were eight cots in here, only two were currently occupied.

“How many lighters are here at Wormstool, Sergeant-Master?” he asked.

“Less than there ought to be, Lampsman Bookchild,” the cot-warden replied. “Put what dunnage ye have on yer billets and come down to the mess with yer kids or yer pannikins.”

“I shall need privacy screens about my cot, then, if you please . . . Sergeant-Master,” Threnody said.

“I shall see what we can arrange for ye, lass,” he said, and left the two young lighters to settle.

“No more time to ourselves,” Rossamünd observed glumly. “At least we are allowed to put pictures up.” He could think of several engravings from his pamphlets he might cut out and display, favorites by eminent pens like Pill or Berthezene.

“Hmm.” Threnody looked about with mild distaste. “It will suffice, I suppose.”

Rossamünd wondered if she was beginning to regret her willfully chosen profession and her hasty decision to throw in her lot with him.

Beds selected and bags dropped they returned down to the common-mess. Major-of-House Grystle called for general attention and semiformally introduced them both to their new messmates.The general reaction from the Worm-stoolers was at first one of bemused disappointment. They were of the same opinion as the house-major, and it was manifest on their faces: Why billet lantern-stick novices with us? Send real lighters with long experience and a steady arm in a fight.

Nevertheless, the men proved friendly, and cheerfully ate a fine breakfast of spiced, lard-fried swampland mushrooms known as thrumcops and a strange kind of bacon Rossamünd was told was made from rabbit-meat. It was all a remarkable enlargement on “Imperial-issue provender,” and Rossamünd only regretted he could not stand the smell or taste of these thrumcop mushrooms. Instead he filled his eager belly with coney-rinds and griddle-fried toast.

“This is so much better than breakfast at the manse!” he declared, which drew the universal approval of his new comrades.

“Aye, aye!” Lightbody nodded emphatically, looking very pleased with himself. “No short commons for we Stoolers, lad. The world about proves bountiful for a keen eye, sharp nose and frank aim.”

“Ye can thank our round-bellied poisoner fer the fine flavors too,” said Sergeant Mulch. “Sequecious is his name, a true culinaire from up Sebastian way.” He pointed to the enormously fat man in a red and beige striped apron, grinning and frying behind a large, flat hot plate that divided the “kitchen” from the mess. “He’s meant to be some kind of prisoner from them wars Clementine and Sebastian are always in. He was sent here a year ago as a slave of the Emperor, I suppose, but he wants to change his nativity and become a paper nationalist of the Empire, strange fellow—”

“Cain’t speak more than ’alf a sentence of Brandenard neither,” interjected Posides. “And we’re meant to watch over ’im and make sure ’e don’t scarper off. Though where ’e’s going to go out ’ere I don’t know!”

“At least he’s fat,” argued Lightbody. “Never trust a gutstarver who bain’t fat—I’ve been told, ’cause a thin one don’t respect food enough to treat it right.”

“What we actually lack is greens,” Aubergene chattily added between chews.

“Just so,” said a trim-looking man, the cothouse’s dispensurist, one Mister Tynche, giving Rossamünd a welcoming smile, “and all we lack at times are some consistent, decent antiscorbutics. If it was not for the sovereign lime from Hurdling Migh and the nutrified wine sent ready mixed from Quinault and the Sulk, it’d be all black gums and lethargy here.”

“Which is why that wriggler Squarmis can ask so much for his goods and time,” Aubergene enlarged. “Sir!” he suddenly called across the trestle to the house-major. “Sir! Did ye hear of the nasty lurker we almost met this dousing?”

“Aye, ’Gene, I surely did,” House-Major Grystle replied. “It was a good thing it wandered away like it did, else I might be less five—no, seven!—brave lighters. You can spare the horses, but don’t spare the lighters!” he cried, and all the mess joined him, chuckling heartily, someone else calling huskily, “A confusion on the nickers!”

As one the Stoolers raised their mugs of three-water grog, took a swig and slammed their tankards back on the trestle, making a hearty wooden clatter. Rossamünd went through the motions and hoped no one noticed his lack of enthusiasm.

Threnody said little for the whole meal, sitting straight and taut, her eyes never leaving her food, and anyone who attempted to speak with her soon gave up in the face of her monosyllabic reluctance.

“What do we call you, girly?” one friendly young fellow of the day-watch tried. “Lamp-lass 3rd Class?” He chuckled in a cheerful way, as did those about him.

Threnody looked at the man sidelong, her fork hovering before her mouth. “Probably anything but girly might be a good start,” she said quietly.

“Watch out, Theudas!” Sergeant Mulch guffawed. “She’s got the tongue of a whip, has our new lady lighter!” which everyone thought a great joke.

The young fellow called Theudas, red-faced, went back to his eating, while Threnody looked rather pleased with herself.

After the morning meal, dishes were collected and washed by the men of the day-watch themselves. Rossamünd tried thanking Sequecious the Sebastian cook for a brilliant meal, to which the man, in a thick accent simply repeated, “Tank yee! Tank yee!” with that unceasing grin.

Dishes done, Rossamünd and Threnody were directed back to their bunks, joining the lantern-watch for their prescribed rest. Threnody’s screens were brought and erected with much better grace than at Tumblesloe Cot. They were put about the farthest bed from the others and, once up, the girl-lighter disappeared behind them, not to be seen again till much later.

Rossamünd organized himself, sorting satchels and bags. He pulled out a bag of boschenbread and offered a piece to Aubergene, who was sitting on his own cot, already in a long nightshirt.

“Why, thankee, Ros—ah—Rossamünd, isn’t it?” he said to Rossamünd’s offer.

“Aye,” the young lighter replied, “Rossamünd—Rossamünd Bookchild of Boschenberg.”

“Ahh, hence the bread and your baldric, aye?” Aubergene made a little salute with his tasty morsel, pointing at Rossamünd’s black and brown baldric, now hanging from an iron bedpost. “So why did they billet you here, truthfully? Everyone is here because of something . . .”

Because the Master-of-Clerks is a conniving, wicked blackguard! went across Rossamünd’s thoughts, but he said, “I’m not sure, it’s just where they sent us.” Taking Europe’s warning, he was not about to leap into some long-winded, barely believable story of events real and suspected. “What about you?” he quickly added.

“Me? Oh, I’ve got a dead-frank aim, and—uh—I calfed after the wrong girl” was all he said, leaving Rossamünd with more questions. Yet before he could ask them Aubergene himself quickly added, with a slightly gormless smile, “Well, welcome to the Stool.”

Rossamünd grinned in return.

The cots proved just as uncomfortable as Winstermill’s—some things in military service always stayed the same, it seemed.Windows were shuttered, blocking the diffuse, surprisingly bright light coming through the fog without. He peeked through a shutter. The fume was slowly dissolving, clearing the eastern view. The young lighter stared at the hazy horizon and could not quite believe that maybe only a day’s lentum-ride farther began one of the most feared places in all the Half-Continent, maybe even the world. “Have you seen the Ichormeer, Aubergene?”

“Aye,” the lampsman replied soberly. “It’s all foul bottomless bogs and stinking pools the color of your heart’s blood; half-dead thickets of red-leafed thornbushes and floating islands of red weed. Every path you take is treacherous and the rot of it all stays in the back of your throat long after you’ve escaped the place. I don’t know how they managed to build the Wormway across it, must have cost a whole trunk of lives.” Aubergene shook his head. “What the more, it’s where the nickers are said to be born or somesuch—however that happens. You don’t want to be going there, Rossamünd. I surely never want to return.”

Rossamünd listened with rapt attention. Despite—or perhaps because of—the lampsman’s lurid description, he was more keen to see the infamous place. Lying down to sleep, he found his imagination ran for the longest time with thoughts of a corrupted, bloodred swampland where loathsome things slithered and groveled in the noisome muds.

“Ye’ve done this before, aye?” said Lamplighter-Sergeant Mulch. “And if ye haven’t, well . . . I suggest ye learn quickly. It’s an easy job and a good way to start, so hop to it now.” There was a familiarly gruff manner in this lamplighter-sergeant, very much like the one they had left behind at Winstermill and perhaps all the sergeants the Half-Continent over.

“Dogs don’t like me so much, Lamplighter-Sergeant,” Rossamünd tried forlornly.

“They’ll get used to ye,” the man insisted, “especially if ye hold them out a little bit o’ food.”

“We will do splendidly, Sergeant,” Threnody said flatly, and taking Rossamünd under his arm, pulled him with her down to the kennels.

But they did not do splendidly.

As at Wellnigh House, so it was here. No matter how tasty a morsel Rossamünd held out to them, the dogs went wild. Threnody’s solution of sending him down to close off and muck out the other end of the cage failed miserably; the dogs bayed and yammered and made such a ruckus at him that all of Wormstool came running with cries of “Nicker on the doorstep!”

They soon realized what was what. There was no nicker anywhere, not even after a full quarto of the Stoolers searched the perimeters of the cothouse with Crescens Hugh the lurksman at their lead.

“I dun’t know, mates, it’s all cry and no nickers,” Hugh declared when the searchers returned and the front door was secured once more. Everyone professed themselves mystified and the incident was dismissed.

Lamplighter-Sergeant Mulch just shook his head when all was done and declared, “The dogs truly don’t like ye, do they, lad?”