"Factotum" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cornish D M)

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fistduke(s) common corruption of the Heil word "viskiekduzar"-pronounced "viss-KYK-doud-saar" and meaning "vicious souls"-troubardierlike soldiery who will happily turn sell-sword and often serve the darkest causes. Braving the crossing of the Gurgis Main, they are hardened fellows and a favorite among the black habilists of the Soutlands, serving as spurns and bravoes or in whatever capacity money's hand might prompt them. Though they are not regarded as true lesquins, neither are they of the mercenary foedermen rabble, but have their own ghastly and well-earned reputation. ROSSAMUND did not return to the waking world-he learned soon enough-until the middle of the morning two days later. Vision swimming and rebellious, his first focus was the wide, somber red canopy of a bed. The last he had known was the rough comfort of the floor. Someone must have put me here. Tipping his head back, his sight quickly resolved on Darter Brown settled on the post of the headboard above him, the faithful sparrow's eyes half closed.

"Hello…," Rossamund composed with sluggish tongue. "How did you get in?"

The sparrow's eyes went swiftly wide. He gave a joyful chirrrup! and circled twice under the ruby-hued canopy before alighting on covers spread over Rossamund's chest, fluttering and blinking happily.

Smiling, the young factotum dozed for a moment, unmindful of where he was or why he was there, staring absently at the slot of sky and thickly lichened tiles glimpsed through broad wooden window frames. Large clean clouds scudded across the gap of blue. Cooing dove-song soothed his soul fraught with adventure, and for a time he just wallowed in the forgetfulness, sliding his limbs under the cozying touch of the crisp bed linen and breathing in deeply on the peculiarly tangy yet musky woody aroma that permeated the room… Only when he went to rub the tip of his itchy nose did he rediscover the odd leafy bandages that bound his hand and remember all the whys and wherefores of his current comfort.

Europe's treacle!

He sat up quickly, giving his side a sharp tweak and launching Darter Brown from his chest, fluttering just below the canopy and chirping in fright. It was then that he became aware of someone sitting in the corner of his vision by his bed: Europe, arms folded and legs crossed, reclined on a tandem. She was dressed not in her telltale red or magenta, but in a peculiar long-hemmed gown of deep green, collared with thick black feathers and figured with vines of lighter hue. With deft applications of rouges and creams from her fiasco, she seemed fresh and well. Faint amusement played across her mien as she regarded him serenely.

"Yes, I did make it myself, if that is what troubles you…"-Rossamund knowing full well she meant her treacle-"Many times…," she added archly as she pulled a bell rope that hung between her and the bed, her eyes glittering with more than she said.

Rossamund eased himself back down. "How is Master Pin?" he asked as Fabia entered with a rattle of crockery, bearing a late breakfast tray: steaming dollops of porridge, brooded new season rhubarb and a pitcher of fresh juice-oforange-a drink he would forever associate with Europe and convalescence.

"He will mend," the fulgar sighed as she smoothed the unfamiliar folds on her lap. "And despite catching a cold-what he calls a blighted catarrh-Master Vinegar fraternizes with the residents when he's not watching over you or Master Salt or blowing his ever-running nose…"

"And… and Cinnamon?" Rossamund asked carefully.

Darter Brown gave a cheep!

Europe waited, watching Fabia until the housekeeper left. "As pleased as I am for the sparrow-bogle's help, I do not care to be its keeper. I am more concerned about the puncture in your flank."

Rossamund looked up from his rhubarb brood. Puncture? He immediately felt his side and found a thick bandage there, bound about front and back. His first inclination was to take it off and see what manner of wound was beneath, yet Europe and spilling brood stopped him.

"It is a neat hole right through from front to back," his mistress explained. "One of those jackstraws must have found a gap in your proofing. I have witnessed lesser cuts kill a man…" She looked at him long, her eyes glinting strangely. "It is a convenient thing to suffer such a hurt and not be overly… discomfited."

Rossamund made a motion somewhere between a shrug and a nod.

"You have native thew that I have had to pay a duke's fortune to gain, little man," the fulgar pressed. "I would value it if I were you."

For a beat, Rossamund was sure he saw a twinkle of envy in her gaze. "I do" was his only reply.

"Good." Europe chuckled as if to change the subject. She folded her hands across her knees. "Knowing all that the butcher Swill could tell him, Maupin has himself seen, I would think, a handsome profit in your capture."

"Aye." Rossamund suppressed a shiver, revulsion alloyed with a frank and primal anger. "And to get to me they sought to kill you."

"Hmm…" The fulgar's gaze turned inward. "Just another casualty to the vagaries of travel on the Empire's harried roads… I am sure that is how my cousin Brandenate would word it in his condoling missive to my mother."

"We ought to go to the Duke of Sparrows, Miss Europe!" he offered with little hope. "Cinnamon as good as gave an invitation-"

"I do not think the sparrow-duke will let such as I in his home, little man… Not even on your say-so."

Rossamund looked unhappily to his rhubarb.

Europe continued to regard him closely. "You are in danger wherever you might hide, and bring the same on those who harbor you. Nevertheless, I do not hold you to my service," she remarked softly and a little coldly. "If you wish it, I shall release you and you may leave for such shelter as the sparrow-man and his lord might grant you-I have learned well enough to make my own treacle since you first entered my employ…"

Blinking at her, the young factotum smarted at the subtle bitterness in her words.

"For mine, however," the Duchess-in-waiting added, "I would say that you are safest with me."

He could not agree with her here; surely the Duke of Sparrows-like the Lapinduce-could keep whole nations at bay.Yet Rossamund did not remonstrate. He did not truly think Europe would be granted sanctuary in the Sparrow Downs either. "I am your factotum, Miss Europe; my lot is with you, wherever you go."

"Bravo!" Europe smiled, warmly at first, then becoming hawkish. "There will be much going, Rossamund, for it is my intent for us to rest here for a time, gather ourselves and then return to Brandenbrass, where I shall make you safer still. What a dark shock they will have when they find that I am yet alive," she observed almost happily, then blinked. "Now, I have questions for our gracious and wide-read host, Master Plume, beyond imposing upon him further-if you are up to it, you may join me."

Twisting his middle, Rossamund declared he felt taut enough to move about.

"I shall await you in my room." Europe rose carefully against her own cracked frame and shut the door quietly behind her. Perfumed by ancient timber paneling and cold slate, the interior of Orchard Harriet felt cavernous, empty but for the murmur of amused conversation sounding from somewhere deeper. The passage to their host's file high in the northeastern wing of the manor was direct enough, though it kinked strangely as its walls went from wood panels to tinted plaster to bare stone in the space of a few strides. Though Europe held good posture, her manifold hurts kept her to a commendably sturdy hobble, for which Rossamund-stiff and sore all over-was supremely grateful, feeling very ungainly with his sharply pinching side and his borrowed wardrobe of light day-clothes a size too small.

Coming right about a corner and stepping down then up an odd double flight of steps-one wood, the other stone-Rossamund froze… For there, lying serenely in the passage and snoring lightly before a solid door of mahogany, was the largest Derehund he had ever encountered. It was bigger even than the monstrous beasts that guarded the lamplighter keep of Wellnigh House on the Wormway.

Unperturbed, Europe stepped about the giant dog without another thought.

Sitting on Rossamund's shoulder, Darter Brown did not fly off in boisterous alarm but remained, eyes squinting again in a partial doze.

Rossamund, however, took a backward step.

The dog stirred and almost immediately became aware of him. Giving a start, it sprang to its feet and turned to face the young factotum, its shrewdly pallid eyes level to his own eye, its damp twitching nose to his nose, pinning him to the wall with its proximity.The beast did not bark or even growl; it just stared.

Rossamund swallowed and tried to slide sideways, toward Europe.

"Come, Rossamund," his mistress called curtly. "You can play with the creature after…"

"Ah-hah!" He heard Gaspard Plume's voice as the heavy door at the end of the passage sprang open. "Don't be minding Baltissar! He's everyone's friend ever since Master Sparrow mended him."

Though this sounded perfectly wondrous and excellent, Rossamund's frequent bitter experience with dogs of this ilk was not so simply assuaged. He inched forward past the beast, expecting at any minute to find his head inside the massive, drooling jaws not three inches from his face. It was the profoundest relief to finally cross the threshold into their host's room.

"Shoo, sir!" Gaspard commanded the Derehund, blocking the dog's curiosity with his body. "You know you are not allowed in here, Baltissar. Go! Keep the mousers honest," he added, and shut the door on the creature's mournful face.

Rossamund relaxed as his mistress and their host traded greetings.

"I must say I was diverted by your works on the Didodumese, Master Plume," Europe observed, smiling shrewdly. "I can understand why you might choose to live so remotely after that particular endeavor. I heard that certain families have put a price upon your learn-ed pate."

"Yes, well…" The historian blanched a trifle. "Truth has few friends, madam, but those who love her do so dearly and will pay with everything to keep her at liberty."

A large space made of two long rooms, Gentleman Plume's file was cramped with the clutter of a curious mind. At various corners were globes and ambit rings, stuffed animals under bell jars, a skull in the middle of a large drum table surrounded by rolls of charts-one held open by a vase containing a single enormous turnsole. There were plush elbow chairs, a turkoman for reading, and shelf upon shelf of more books than Rossamund knew had been made. Any spare glimpses of the paneled wall were padded with rich red cloth, hung with ephemerides or daubed with loose yet exquisite paintings of animals of the common sorts, the style of the artist familiar to Rossamund.

Flanked by a massive chest of map drawers on one side and a tall bench with an equally tall stool on the other, Gentleman Plume's enormous desk dominated the second room. Behind it, draping the wall above a crackling hearth, was a large painted web of reds and golds, umbers and whites. Covering the chimney breast, it showed circles within squares within circles written over with the names of the eight winds, the old Phlegmish months, the skold's formula AOWM, and the obsolete appellations for the three original continents. A cunctus orbis, Mister Plume complacently called it-an ancient chart of the known world at the time of the Phlegms.

Painted and stitched with staggering precision, it had, as Rossamund could see, the great city Phlegmis marked with a red star in its midst, the center of the world.

By the open southern window a glossy pied daw sat upon a wooden perch above a pan of grit, ogling the arrivals with shrewd yellow eyes. Giving a feisty twitter, Darter Brown shot up to Rossamund's crown to stare and ruffle his feathers, little claws prickling at the young factotum's scalp.

"That is a fine wee bird on your skull, young sir," Plume suddenly said to him, nodding to Darter Brown. "Is it properly… trained?" he asked frankly. "Guano about the house and down one's back is not a good show, I would think."

Rossamund blinked. He had never given the notion any thought. "I do not know, sir. He came to me out of the wilds just as he is."

"It is a rare thing for a fellow to have such a spontaneously loyal creature," Plume observed shrewdly. "You are fortunate to be held in this regard… He may share a perch with Pig if he wishes"-Plume indicated the daw-"should he need."

Pig, the pied daw, blinked at hearing its name.

"Uh… Aye, sir…"

"Mister Plume, you are vaunted as a man of many parts," Europe interjected after further brief pleasantries, taking a high-backed seat before the man's spreading desk. "Do you recognize this?" She produced the four-barred mask of the Featherhead chieftain, its fastening ribbons trailing from it. "Its owner was among our attackers." She gave a brief account of the ambush, shifting a little painfully in her seat as she made mention of blows delivered and received.

"Mmm, mighty deeds done at our very door." Plume chuckled gravely, tilting his head knowledgeably, turning the mask over and over. "Still, a good neighbor is better than a distant relative, and any soul in sore need sorely needs a neighbor! You are healing, m'lady?"

"As well as pith allows," she replied with an impatient twirl of her fingers. "What of the mask, sir?"

The genial fellow blinked tolerantly at her. "This, good lady, is the dial of a Grammaticar of a sept of the Seven Seven cult." He paused as if the gravity of his statement was obvious. "The Seven Seven are of the worst false-god adorants; worshippers of Sucathes, ruthless and bloodthirsty and all that… Fond of entering into a fight drunk on sanguinary draughts…"

Little wonder then they were so heedless! Rossamund's thoughts must have shown on his face, for Plume beamed at him gratefully, glad to have affected at least one of his listeners.

"They are bad company to have at your tail, I am afraid, m'dear," Plume continued, "and here you have gone and done in one of their most senior members." He paused. "It ought be hoped you have annihilated this local sept, else they will come, hunt and find you…"

"I am not agitated by some local fictlers, sir," Europe replied, unmoved.

"Ah, yes, of course…Your confidence does you credit, madam; you are an ornament to your profession!" The historian cleared his throat. "As for the wildmen you describe, they are most likely to be the Widden-or so they call themselves, after their forebears. They are eastern Piltdowners, still embittered a thousand years on at the conquests of the Burgundians, of the Tutelarchs, of their western and southern Pilt brethren, using long history as an excuse for all kinds of brigandry…"

"I hope we have not brought undue threat to your house, Mister Plume," Rossamund said in increasing concern.

The historian smiled. "Master Cannelle will have brought you unobserved and unfollowed. If it comes to it, we have seen such as them off before."

"You fought bandits from this house, sir?" Rossamund gaped.

Gentleman Plume gave him a knowing wink. "I believe Mister Gutter, our resident playwright and sometime composer, is attempting to work a variety of the salient event into his second operetta."

Europe smiled patiently. "And the heavy warriors in the horn-ed casques?"