Economous Musgrove Chapter 6 Part 2

Hmm, will testicles be grown at last?

By way of apology for the delay in posting I give you a bumper issue.

Economous

musgrove

    

© D.M.Cornish

PLEASE DO NOT PUBLISH OR REPRODUCE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION

Chapter 6 PART 2

Bless-ed Anonymity

“Return that purloined item to me this instant,” the saviour of the city purred, “and all shall be forgot. I shall see that the property finds its… rightful home, and you shall go on your worthless way knowing that you owe your continued breath to the mercy of your highers and betters.” He finally looked Economous in the eye to see that the import of his false claim had made it home.

False in fact, but true by station, went the term – the loftier classes were right by right, regardless of truth or actual wrong. The higher a soul stood in society, the “righter” they were.

“Come, Mister …………, Madamielle Cantaline, Mister ……………,” the fat fellow purred to his spurns. “Learn this ill-read brute a just and fitting lesson that he might not re-offend and  a small jink of justice be done in this most unjust place.”

All too willing to obey, the three bravoes stepped around their master and made to encircle Economous, the two men brandishing their heavy cudgels suggestively while the lady skold took a caste of dangerous chemistry from  one of several digital containers at her belt.

Economous backed away clumsily, colliding thigh and buttock with a stone-post, arresting his retreat just long enough for the trio of sturdy roughs to gain and surround him. How did I get here! his eternal inward observer wailed, slow to believe and therefore truly comprehend his danger. Habits formed through training served him now as the imagineer was thoughtlessly leant back into the eighth primary stance – held best when facing sundry foes. Miserichord buzzed like a hive of wasps in his twitching grasp.

“You do not have to do this,” he said in druken fright, he mouth speaking without reference to his working mind.

“’Tis a mite late for mewling, lad,” the largest of the spurns – Mister ………… appeared to be his name – returned with fixed determination.

“You wouldn’t attack a concometrist would you, not in such open view,” Economous tried again.

“I would!” barked the youngest spurn – so named Mister ………… by his master. Clearly thinking he had easy prey plumping in his clutches and all too eager in his inexperience, the brazen youth closed directly with Economous.

Even through his drunken daze, Economous recognised the lads mistake but found himself unwilling in that instant to exploit it for fear of making a bad situation worse. His limbs however, did not apparently share such quibbles and without knowing what his own arms were at, Economous suddenly struck out with Miserichord, lashing the youngest spurn across the unwary fellow’s cheek. It was a mighty blow: a perfect sinidextrous ortus capat – upper-cutting left-to-right strike to the head –that instantly drew gore spluttering from the foe’s nose, sending the spurn reeling back clutching his stricken face, to collapse scarce sensible upon the flags. With only the slightest sense of risk behind, the calibrator whipped back faster than Economous knew was within his own ability, foiling a wicked turbus capat aimed purposefully at his head by Mister ………… seeking to exploit the younger spurn’s error.

“Oh-ho, it seems this one knows what he is about,” the lady skold – one Madamielle Cantaline – chortled grimly as the older spurn span away from so skilful a defence to think again upon his next assault.

Wide-eyed and amazed at himself, Economous stared now at the skold, fathoming full well that her fumes were his greatest threat. In the very motion of that thought, the woman flicked her arm with that peculiar twisting flourish of a skolds-throw and Economous knew he was in strife. Even as he futilely swung his priceless black calibrator to prevent at least being directly struck by the bursting of the caste, he knew his only real hope was that the potive flung was nothing more than a choking fume and not some deadly mordant or blasting fulminant. Eyes shut against the inevitable engulfing chemistry, he was amazed to feel a small yet satisfying chock! as Miserichord deftly connected with the tiny fragile caste. However, rather than shattering the tiny delicate vessel with its foul concoction, the intervening strike sent it directly back at the skold to burst with a flash of orange and purple upon its very originator. With several startled yelps, people passing near scampered clear of the fume, pulling unwary neighbours with them. Flailing her arms as she sought to douse the dire fizzing  so abruptly and  unexpectedly turned against her, Madamielle Cantaline promptly dropped to her knees and flopped forward on face and stomach, overcome by her own makings.

Her employer – several feet to Economous’ left – flapped his own limbs in impotent rage at this mishandling of his staff.  “HOW DARE YOU, SIR! HOW DARE YOU! THEY COST ME SIXTY SOU PER ANNUM EACH! SCOUNDREL! HELP! HELP! I AM ATTACKED!” – a cry to  which no one paid the smallest attention.

“Full of tricks, aren’t we,” Mister ………, the last spurn growled, drawing now a short, heavy straight-bladed jacksword from the folds of the pleated frocks of his proofed coat. “I have ploys of my own…”

As amazed as his thwarted attackers at the sublime and unlikely skill of his self defence, Economous blinked a little stupidly at this final opponent.

As much as any calibrator might be re-enforced against the whittling cuts of any sword, Economous well knew that in the end, blades beat cudgels in all but the best hands. As handy at harundo as he might have been – steady enough to place on the tables of Athingdon Athy’s best cudgel-players – it had been a double run of profound fortune that had saved him tonight; he did not want to chance the Lots a third – and anecdotally fatal – time.

Jacksword in one hand, wickedly knobbled cudgel in the other, the third spurn did not give him a choice, springing left then right in a zagging rush, striking first with sword then swift as a swallow with stick.

Thwack! Thwack! Economous stopped them both in a single astonishing motion, Miserichord was alive in his grasp, sending an impulse of unalloyed glee surged up the illuminator’s arm that set his wind leaping until it was all he could do to not laugh aloud for the joy of the fight.

Mister ………… leapt back with a frustrated growl, doubt shewing in his mein for the first time.

“WELL, GET HIM, MAN!” Monsiere Blanquett bawled without any care for the two ailing spurns at his feet. “I DO NOT LODGE YOU AND PAY YOUR INFLATED FEE TO HAVE YOU STAND BESIDE AND GAWP!”

At this, Economous let his queer, fizzing delight out in a coughing guffaw, a bizzare gurgling sound that gained more attention from those so studiously giving the fracas a wide berth.

“WHY DOES HE LAUGH, MISTER …………?” the false adventurer demanded. “Make him stop, this instant!”

“Aye! Aye!” Mister ………… barked angrily. Glowering pure malice at Economous, the spurn now stepped side to side now to circle leftwards about the illuminator. “You want something to laugh upon, do ye?” he snarled. “I can think of a thing or two to do it!”

Suddenly the fellow was upon him, sweeping sword and wood alike, over and over, a fury of blows that were no less shrewd and true for all their violence.

Feeling like a dumb puppet trailing at the end of Miserichord, Economous foiled every hit; he needed merely to have the slightest sense of an incoming strike before the wentry tool was whipping left, right, up or down, stopping the assault cold, the gorgeous elderwood unmarked even  by the tempered steel of the blade.

With a rough, cursing cry of frustration, Mister ………… finally over-stepped with a vehement yet fatigued flail, leaving – however briefly – himself exposed to a counter offend.

Miserichord now almost felt to pull Economous to step aside and like being lead in a dance, pivot about smartly to smack the astonished spurn hard upon the exposed gap between his tri-corned head and the proofing of his gaulded frockcoat collar. With a disconcerting Crack! the fellow was sent sprawling hand and knee to the cold hard flags. A dollymop with her nose in a long written list and more pressing concerns spinning about her thoughts, paused for only a blink to look first at the fallen soul then frown up at Economous before stepping over the prone spurn even as he arrived at her feet. More, Economous rushed to stand over the spurn, black calibrator raised and ready to smite his foe again should the fellow be lack-witted enough to try and rise.

The older spurn stayed down.

All battle-delight left Economous in a heave of weariness.

Now that the violence was done, people finally began gathering in a loose and cautious ring and Monsiere Blanquett immediately responded.

“DO NOT HURT ME! DO NOT HURT ME!” the high-blown fellow shrieked, all bravado voided like an emptying bladder in the face of such precipitous defeat. “I am dear friend to the Marchess of the Pike! I dine regularly with the Lord Prune, 2^nd Estimator-General to the Arch-Duke himself!”

Empty – almost bereft – Miserichord a dead weight in his hand, Economous stepped to stand over the cowering soul and looked down on his would-be accuser with dark, uncontainably frank contempt. And I have drawn the great and true lord of this city, he seethed inwardly to counter the monsiere’s reaching claims. Not knowing what to do – never before had he been in a such a position of supremacy, and the skold, Madamielle Cantaline was rousing  – Economous left his rotund tormentor where he grovelled and hastened into the milling souls. Pausing only to buy – as he had always intended – more claratine and poor bread, he hurried far down the Prandial, seeking distance and bless-ed anonymity.

He might have saved his own hide but what of the consequence of such a victory. No aristocratic sort would sit for long in such humiliation. Economous would be sought out, witnesses questioned, harried, made to tell. He could only hope that he had looked so uncommonly dishevelled that few of his streetside neighbours would have recognised him … A battle won but the war lost, went the line.

Full of fear and mistrust, he did not return directly home, rather running in the opposite direction deeper into the Alcoves, desperate to not be recognised and pinned fatally to the fight. For a bad end was certain should he be named as Monsiere Blanquett’s attacker: in defence of self or not, conviction at the Duke’s Bench of assault by a common soul upon  a personage of elevated station was a short trip to the gallows in Coldbeam Square. Yet what else could he have done? His end was a standing before a magistrate had he submitted to Monsiere Blanquett’s false accusation.

If only I had not run out so rashly! he berated himself. What was I at! What must Asthetica make of such a childish display?

Despite such self-imprecation, he marvelled at the ease of his victory and the skill of his fighting arm – or perhaps more truly, the unheard of yet mirablic efficacy of his wentry tool, his payment for drawing a creature who itself ought not exist as it did.

Mirabilic, indeed!

The hopeless illuminator sighed heavily. Hunched and hidden in this dank nook in the fishing district of The Pot, he drank, chewed over-cooked bread, his humours still refusing to calm as he re-fought the incomprehensibly one-sided fight in his soul over and over again. How Miserichord – now still and cold like any other span of lumber – had buzzed and leapt in his grasp. Reluctant to keep hold of it, yet loath to cast it so simply away, Economous regarded the black rule like it might at any moment spring off, dragging him haplessly with it.

Could any witness tell it was the stick that fought and not its wielder? Who could credit such a thing?

Wedged between crawdod pots and shaken down butts, jumping at every rattle or bump or hint of human voice, Economous waited. As night drew on he was amazed to find an almost continuous traffic of rabbits moving about in the secluded quiet of his hiding place, constantly nuzzling the air for threats many stopping to stare at him, wretched fellow that he was.

“Tell your master he can have his stick back,” the thwarted fabulist hissed at them.

They simply winked and twitched at him.

He had read once that the blessings of monsters were a blight on all everymen, and he was now beginning to see why. He tried to shoo the creatures away and leave him free of this constant token of the Lapinduce’s presence. Failing to shift them, he took to glaring at the sneaky little beasts, until the first gleam of morning glory glowed in the eastern arc of roof cluttered sky and the rabbits scattered to deeper shadowed alleys.

Rising, Economous shook himself and returned by an uncommon route of byways, avoiding the eye of the several lamp-dousing limn-men he passed until at last he made it to his garret. With infinite care, he crept up the unsteady flights to lay a-bed at last, thought-consumed and twisted by fright, watching sun rays piercing the gaps in the slats of his garret shutters grow more acute in angle, the winking of his weary eyes growing long and heavy, until senseless sleep finally overtook him.

Economous Musgrove Chapter 6 Part 1

I would suggest the following is NOT a good way to get out of a hole.

I am finding folks theorums and ponderings about who is what very entertaining and helpful. Please, keep the thoughts coming.

Economous

musgrove

    

© D.M.Cornish

PLEASE DO NOT PUBLISH OR REPRODUCE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION

Chapter 6 PART 1

Bless-ed Anonymity

casque ~ a hinged slat of wood with holes for neck and wrists and a heavy lock to secure it shut; used as the most basic form of civil punishment by many cities of the Soutlands, seen as more humane than lashes with a cane that was for many generations the usual mode.  MORE…………

Half-blind in drunken dismay and utterly shocked with himself, Economous part jogged, part staggered down the To-Market, determined to put as many strides between him and the disarray behind him as he could in an evening.  So rough was his exit that he fully expected to be chase down and accosted, hauled back to Lord Fold to apologise with great show: but no pursuit followed him in his rapid, unsteady retreat. With a confused notion of replenishing his vanished stock of cheap claratine, Economous bumped through his fellow downside citizens agitated with anticipations of the year’s turning. About him folks made ready all manner of cauldron-bells, clutter-bottles, ratchet weasels, pots, griddle pans, cutlery, tom drums, tin horns and speaking trumpets: a great collection by which to make a great din of noise to see out one annum and bring in the new.

Once, long ago in less urbane times, such clamour was universally held to frighten off monsters prowling at the foot of village walls. And though the custom was thoughtlessly continued in most cities of the Soutland city-states, such simple-headed ideas were largely forgotten or scoffed over. Yet any rustic parish neighbour, especially those under very present threat from nicker and bogle out on the sokelands at the fringe of human habitation – such as Economous’ native town of Lo – knew better. As much as he relished city life, Economous had always thought the name of “naïvine” for an urbanite who had never encountered a monster acutely apt. City folk loved to put on knowing manners and pretend to themselves that they were supreme over all the threats of nature, but he had only met a few who fathomed fully the dread and danger that country souls called normal. And the higher the rank, the deeper this ignorance commonly went: such as Lord Fold. Economous sorely doubted  if the Reive of Lot-in-the-hole – despite his country purview – had ever been dial-to-dial with even a mildly mischievous bogle, let alone a ravening nicker and survived.

Resolved on finding some small species of satisfaction in this dyphr-wreckage of a day, the frustrated illuminator hurried onto wider way of the Prandial Street, a dual carting way fancy enough to possess stone-posts and  its own row of street lamps at the regulation twenty-five yards, paid for by subscription of the local shopkeepers. Such glorious enlightenment – normally only found in middling or high-station suburbs – made this thoroughfare popular in the darkling hours and its merchants and markets and walk-in bazaars remained open well after all other sellers had retired for hearth and bed.

As the sun westered, the day-light traffic of cart and drey and the rare private lentum was replaced by handsome, open-top dyphrs, park-drags with teams of six and fare-charging takenys coming from all wards of the city. Under the frowning wood embellishments leaning from the salt-stained façade of every structure to crowd the vacancy above the Prandial, the usual throng continued without pause: water-caddies, crossing-sweeps and wandering tray or barrow sellers, moll potnys, sharps with their cheap tricks and grab-cleats lurking, looking for easy prey. But now these were joined by early revellers, a great many of whom – by evidence of their fine clothes – were not native to the Grand Liberty of the Alcoves. With all these hurried a unique sight in this modern age: dollymops by the dozen in their high white bonnets and aproned stomacher dresses. Like lowly pantry maids they went with clear purpose from grocer’s stall to shambleman, from tallow-puff to dispensurist and all domestic shops between, forced by their work-a-day hours to buy their food and necessaries at such an unseemly time.

Among it all Economous wove a worming way until he spied the shuffling figure he sought: Chancer Pigfeet – a convicted pinch-dough baker only recently returned from prison, back to scratch his scant living from the admirably forgiving or those of his neighbours too poor to afford grudges. Employing a tallow barrow as his stall, crying: “Loafs for the loathely! Bread for starving souls!”, Chancer Pigfeet also sold the cheapest claratine this side of the Spokes.

Sight fixed on the pinch-doughman, Economous bustled through a small collection of fine-looking folk out of place in their well-cut cloth and gathered so carelessly and obstructively in the very midst of the Prandial’s walk.

“Oi!” came a rough retort.

Ignoring exclamations and goodly manners – such as his own parents had taken pains to inculcate in him during his awkward, lonely boyhood – the aimless imagineer pressed on to his goal of small, stony loaves and thin wine. Yet when he approached [BAKER NAME] the fellow looked past Economous, paled, turned and hurried his meagre goods to some other vantage on the bustling street.

Economous blinked stupidly and frowned.

“My, that’s a fine piece o’ wood you have in your hands, m’boy,” came an oily observation from close behind.

Economous turned to find a portly high-station fellow in a fine coat of cloth-of-silver brocaded with cloth-of-gold, and a high silver wig standing before him: primped, powdered, flabby cheeks rouged prettily, entire person drenched in pungent sweet-waters.

Lord Dust of Drystick, little doubt, Economous concluded and chuckled to himself.

Here was another bored and indolent person of circumstance out on “adventure” in the rough districts.

What is it about the Alcoves that attracts these overblown dastards? 

At the brave “adventurer’s” back were three unfriendly looking figures, the man’s spurns, there to make the slumming adventure actually possible, all clad in heavy proofing and sour looks that served well to keep most trouble bayed. One – a woman – was marked with a twin of dark vertical stripes upon their face going from hairline, over either eye and down each cheek. A skold! – a brewer and thrower of dangerous potives designed first to harm monsters but proving ill against everymen too.

“I am myself a connoisseur – as they say it in the Patricine – of such curiosities,” the powdered fellow said smoothly, looking intently to Economous’ hand. “From whom did you steal it?”

Puzzle-headed, Economous lifted his hand and saw what grip alone confirmed, that in the heat of the instant he had fled Madamine Grouse’ Bunkhouse with the black-elder calibrator still in grasp.  “It is not stolen!” he slurred angrily. “H-how dare you, sir! It was a –” … then realised with a souse-addled blink he had no fitting tale as to how he possessed it, close his mouth with an audible plop!

 “Oh I think we will find it is stolen, m’boy,” the preened and  powdered adventurer pressed, his regard only leaving the priceless tool to make certain he was making a fine spectacle.

By now other folk were realising something dark and portentially unpleasant was a-foot and began reflexively to skirt widely about Economous and his well-served tormentor.

“Do you see, [………NAME………],” the fat fellow continued over-loudly, talking now to a young spurn on his right: a swaggering yet rather common-looking fellow a year or two Economous’ junior and cradling a gabelung in his arms as if it were the historied Mast of Ruin itself. “This is why we do the necessary civic service of descending into this reeking place and patrolling its diseased streets. At every turn is some half-clothed blackguard such as this fellow here,” he flicked a dismissive gesture at Economous, “strolling about brazenly without neckerchief or hat or cingulum, boasting their crimes and thinking these warrens of unhealthy streets will hide them. Not while Monsiere Blanquett is on his watch! Oh no! Not while I care and dare enough to bring right and fruitful living to those most in need of the instruction.”

“Dare you seek to impeach the noble and tested character of a concometrist, sir!” Economous retorted boldly, his humours simmering with all the courage three bottles of bitter-strong vin can bring.

For a blink his rotund accuser took pause: it was indeed a grave thing to assault any of an athy’s agents by word or deed. Had Economous been wearing his baldric, sable edged in leuc – black edged in white, the unique sign of a concometrist – it would have been unlikely they would have accosted him in the first, fancy calibrator or nil.

But all too quickly the man’s expression turned shrewd.

“Ho now!” Monsiere Blanquett declared victoriously, looking the dishevelled illuminator boot to crown with open disgust. “Where is your cingulum? Your number-book? Your fitting mode of attire?” He raised a victorious finger. “For if you are a concometrist, sir,” he continued waspishly, “then you are a disgrace to that institution’s glorious dignity!”

Though Economous was about himself enough to not let it show, this judgement hit true, for it was – surely – true. “Well,” he returned with a contrived and showing lightness of tone, “allow me to hasten home and fetch it then, to prove my claim and save you embarrassment.” Realising that he was just playing into this silken bully’s game in remaining tamely to receive his lecture, Economous now turned and went on his way, already thinking how tasty even an ill-baked pinch loaf would taste at that moment.

“Don’t you walk away from me, you lousy malnourished brute!” the self-proclaimed monsiere bellowed with all the authority four spurns gained him. “Stop! STOP ! I say, or for this insult alone I shall make certain you suffer an afternoon in a casque on the public step of the Leak!"

This was no idle threat: a person of high station could indeed – upon their word alone – have any low-born soul incarcerated briefly on the charge of insolence and wilful impertinence.

Despite himself, Economous halted and turned.