Their Majesties' Bucketeers (13 page)

“As to the precise moment my investigation began, you yourself were there at the instant Srafen died—I’ll not be satisfied until rher murderer lies flattened to a finger-width between a pair of granite blocks!”

At this pronouncement, the tilt of Myssmo’s carapace threatened to become an avalanche as she began to swoon.

“Your pardon, madame,” Mav interjected quickly. “I see I have upset you. Perhaps it would be better now if we were to take our leave. May I use your telephone to call a cab?”

Somehow, she recovered. “But you have not yet enjoyed your kood, good Investigator. Why not allow me to light the wick now, and I will have your telephoning done. Will that be agreeable?”

Once again, I wished that I had been consulted. She set a match to the wick and then traipsed off toward the hall, mincing between the garish and barbaric patterns in the carpet. The door swung partly shut behind her, and Mav placed a finger before a nostril to silence me (as if, all afternoon, it had really been necessary!), caution written large upon his pelt. Then, signing me to follow, he tip-fingered across the room in the direction Myssmo had gone. The door, as I have said, was still ajar, and we both peeked into the hall, where Myssmo herself held the telephone in her hand.

It was impossible, of course, to make out what she was saying, for the hall was large and properly carpeted. Moreover, she was not precisely shouting into the instrument. She held the speaking orifice close upon her nostril, her pelt aroused in what I believe was sincere anxiety, and glanced wildly about the place as if pursued by some gigantic predator.

She momentarily returned the telephone to its little table, attempting to compose herself, then picked it up again, addressing someone on the line in relatively normal tones. When she set the instrument once more upon its stand, both Mav and I hastily returned to our original positions, my companion remaining standing, which I took as a cue to collect my bag.

“Your transportation’s on its way, good Bucketeers,” she warbled cheerily as she entered the room again. “I really wish you would be seated until it arrives; perhaps you would be interested to hear about that most
amazing
incident that happened at a séance I attended just the other evening.”

Mav’s pelt was courteously arranged. “I do beg your pardon, Myssmo, and thank you sincerely for the hospitality you have shown us. But I must have some words with my associate, and we are both in need of fresh air”—here, he rippled his pelt at me on a side Myssmo could not see, a talent I must someday attempt to cultivate for myself—“having been cooped up in our offices all this morning.” He indicated the gathering gloom outside her windows. “I am afraid our time for fresh air is growing short, for there are, as you see, definite indications of rain upon the horizon.”

To the polite prevarication on Mav’s part concerning our morning’s activities, I manifested sober affirmation, desiring nothing more dearly at the moment than to quit this polluted chamber. Mav thanked her once again for the kood and conversation and suggested, once our belongings had been returned to us, that we might see our own way out.

In all, this final separation took rather longer than I might have wished, it being necessary to excuse ourselves from several invitations to various séances, entrail-readings, and the casting of our own trilunes. By the time we managed to reach the porch, our cab could be seen beginning its ascent around the long, circular drive.

For the moment, we were alone.

“Mymy,” Mav inquired, a cast of puzzlement in his fur, “may I ask why you did not assist me more in interrogating Myssmo? Merciful Pah, I could certainly have used your—”

I had taken sufficient breath for an appropriately indignant reply, when—

BAMM
!
There was the sound of a pistol shot to our left. The cabman’s watu shied and reared, threatening to overturn the vehicle. Mav swiftly drew his reciprocator. I felt about my person for bullet holes. Discovering none, I extended the search into my bag for my little pistol and, feeling quite foolish and melodramatic, followed Mav around the corner of the building.

There, toward the back along a gravel pathway, lay a line of watu stalls not dissimilar to those in which Mav quartered his own riding animals, but evincing relatively recent disuse. Before the nearest of them, a tallish, thin, aristocratic fellow incongruously attired in soiled work clothing was heaping sand in desperate haste into some complicated wheeled mechanism from which there issued a considerable volume of black smoke.

Mav holstered his pistol. “Mymy, do be good enough to go and ask the cab to wait for us. Here’s a nickel crown, which ought to hold him.”

Indeed, and it would hold, me, too, had it not been for the clouds gathering overhead. I followed his instructions, however, hoping that the fellow would not blame us for the explosion, and returned to my companion’s side in time to hear introductions being made.

“Oh, I say, so
you
are Captain Mav!” The card in the stranger’s hand now bore a greasy fingerprint. “Srafen spoke quite often and affectionately of you, sir. I am Tobymme Toodhagomm
Law
. Splendid making your acquaintance at last, old lam!” He extended a blackened hand, took it back and wiped it with an equally unsightly cloth, and offered it again.

“How do you do, sir,” said Mav, “and this is my associate, Missur Mymy. Mymy, this is Srafen’s husband. Is that some sort of new steam carriage there that you are working on?”

I’d seen a thousand of Law’s sort while growing up, usually where the idle rich gathered to pop about in little chariots pursuing a leather ball with mallets. It was one of my principal motivations for desiring a useful occupation.

“Not precisely,” young Law replied, “although it is what I began with. This is an invention of mine, an idea I had one afternoon while shooting shrimp out in the Neth upon a friend’s estate. You see, he had this splendid new Continental reciprocating shotgun—about three-bore if I recall aright—and it occurred to me that one might alter an engine to the same principle that operates the action of such a gun, employing the same combustible substance both as fuel
and
the expansion medium that turns the rotor, instead of burning something to heat water to produce steam.”

For the second time that day, I believe I witnessed Mav rendered quite speechless. “A
capital
idea, Law, a capital idea!” He drew his weapon again, displaying it to the young inventor—although I noticed that he stopped short of offering to let the fellow handle it. “But tell me, has it not occurred to you that modifying a conventional three-lobed rotary steam engine is less efficient than following the natural design of the gun?”

Law manifested perplexity.

Mav scraped away the sand that had been thrown into the motor. “Look here, instead of this trochoidal rotor, imagine, if you will, a sort of captive bullet, unable to escape the barrel and attached to a cranking shaft that would drive the wheels. A reciprocating engine, now wouldn’t that be something? Whatever would one use for fuel, I wonder.”

Law pointed toward a clump of abandoned apparatus leaning against the shed. “I started off with gunpowder, right enough. See, there are the hoppers and metering devices that proved both hopelessly complex and rather dangerous. Fellows at the Club—you ought to join, don’t you know?—talked me out of it, eventually. Soon afterward, I hit upon ordinary inhaling fluid, such as you’re using in your pipe, there.”

I
thought
I’d recognized the noisome scent, and tapped several walking fingers upon the pathway. “It seems to me a rather unhealthy sort of invention. Can you imagine a cityful of these devices filling everybody’s air with smoke and unburned vapors? I believe that I prefer Vyssu’s steam carriage!”

Mav’s rear eye brightened. “Oh,
there
you are, Mymy! Where have you been all this time?” He made considerable show of walking around Law’s mechanical contrivance and poking into the discarded powder mechanism. “Ingenious! I have been asking Law, here, a number of questions about his—what do you call it, sir?”

“An internal conflagration engine,” he replied, fuzzy with pride.

“And a splendid turn of phrase it is, at that! I will follow its development with great interest, and it pains me that we must now depart. I shall give due consideration to joining your Inventors’ Club. Our cabman will be desirous of his due, and it appears that we are in for it, weatherwise. I shall return, old fellow, rely upon it. I’m absolutely
dying
to see your engine running!”

He took my arm and hastened toward the cab.

“My dear Inquirer, have you lost your senses? Humoring that terrible female, tinkering with that disgusting piece of machinery, and apparently forgetting that our cab is already—”

He crinkled with wry amusement. “Mymy, I quite agree with you, any civilization that would adopt such a device in preference to—shall we call it
ex
ternal conflagration?—would have to be quite insane. Nor have I altogether taken leave of my wits. I simply believe that something most important has just transpired, and I’m uncertain what to do about it.”

“If one may ask?”

“Indeed one may, my dear. When I was in the Air Navy, I knew an elderly rating who chanced to place his hand between a pair of guy wires as the envelope was being inflated. They tightened, and I’m afraid the appendage was sheared away completely.”

I stopped a dozen paces from the cab. “Agot Edmoot
Mav
, what
does
this have to do with…with anything under Pah’s increasingly foreboding heavens?”

“Well you see, the old fellow’s enlistment was nearly up, and under some peculiarly cruel quirk of naval law, his disfigurement—and he was of an age that precluded vigorous regeneration—would get him cashiered early and render him a helpless mendicant for the remainder of his life. He begged me not to report the accident, and I did more than that: I helped him to conceal his wound. He bore it with admirable courage for another six months, retiring with a modest but entirely honorable income.”

“Pray answer my question directly, Mav, before I find a use for this little pistol in my bag!”

“Mymy, perhaps the wisest thing is to return to the Precinct and draw up a warrant for an arrest. You’ll recall the discarapaced hand that you also carry in your bag?”

“Not so! It is now in my surfather’s office, packed in ice!”

He assisted me into the cab. “As may be. In any event, had you been more observant—and less impatient to be home before your fireplace, I wager—you’d have seen that our new friend Law wears an empty walking glove upon his
presently
hindmost right walking hand, precisely as my old sailor was forced to do. And, in a manner of speaking, I believe that you’re the one who put it there!”

As we left the late Professor’s gate, there was a flash and growl of thunder and the rain began to fall.

XI: On Commoner’s Bridge

Naturally
enough, it was the rain that decided our next steps. It proved a heavy fall, indeed; an actually discernible sheen of moisture glistened upon the roadway as our driver, suddenly unheeding of his commission, turned the vehicle and raced for one of those shelters Their Majesties are pleased to provide at intervals across the city, wishing for his watu and himself that warmth and dryness that we, in his presumption, would desire no less dearly than he. Thus we slowed somewhere upon the northern edge of the central business district to roll beneath the broad and lofty eaves of a vaguely barnlike structure that, in ordinary moments, housed a daily penny market of stalls and handcarts.

Characteristically, however, my companion had very different ideas. As our conveyance nudged its way into a narrow space among a dozen others, hired and private, amidst the clutter of perhaps a hundred highly disgruntled push-waggon entrepreneurs, Mav drew his reciprocator, rapping with its pereskine handle upon the ceiling of the carriage. In the dampness, it made a dull, disheartened sort of noise.

“I say there, good fellow!” Mav rapped again, more vigorously. “Driver, can you hear me?”

A small three-cornered trap slid sideways, one fur-rimmed and unhappy eye manifesting itself in the resulting aperture. “Here now, yer Excellency, kindly do not distract me, for, as you can see, I’ve got me an Emergency Condition I’m contendin’ with, here.” The reek of inexpensive inhaling fluid demonstrated the extent of his contentions, yet the capitals in his expression were most carefully placed and well advised, a small official placard being attached in plain sight to the inner wall of the carriage stating regulations that, in times of such Emergency Conditions, allowed cabdrivers to delay or discharge passengers in such manner as “safety and convenience” (the driver’s) dictated.

And without the unpleasant formality of remuneration.

Mav extracted his own inhaling pipe and saw to its preparation, all the while holding fast the gaze of our driver, yet never uttering a word.

“Something else I can do fer you?” the brazen fellow finally inquired.

“Quite so, my good fellow, though you may wish to debate it upon first hearing.” He took a lengthy draught upon his pipe with a certain air of indifferent amusement at the driver’s insolence.

“Meanin’ what, if one may ask?” Greed and intransigence began to struggle in the fellow’s pelt.

“Meaning that, should you agree to waive the privilege of this regulation”—here Mav indicated the placard—“and return once more to the street—
hear me out, I say!
—I will personally see that you are quickly warm and dry again, your animal rubbed down, both of you given a hot meal…and sufficient wherewithal to let the pair of you make holiday of the rest of the week.” Here, at last, Mav permitted the gleam of silver to escape from between his fingers; it seemed, judging by the cablam’s expression, considerably to lighten the gloom of that worthy’s day.

Mav gave the street address of his mother’s estate.

Abruptly the little door slid shut, and in a moment, the shelter appeared to wheel about, nearly spilling us both between the seats. The scent of rain entered our consciousness afresh and the watu ran as swift and straight a course as is possible anywhere in the city, directly to Upper (Most) Hedgerow.

My companion’s mother’s home was similar to that of Srafen, a large house with an indeterminate number of outbuildings, immaculate and orderly, surrounded by spacious, well-kept grounds; some foreign touch or accent, difficult to point to in any one particular, lent a sense of unity and style the place might otherwise have lacked. Mav’s mother met us in the watu barn, alerted via telephone by a retainer at the gatehouse, and, at her son’s urgings, ordered that the cablam and his beast be seen to. She requested, as well, a meal for us, and stood before her son and me quite resolutely until she was satisfied that we both had the most earnest of intentions of putting a proper finish to what she had provided.

In that respect, I think, all mothers are alike.

But a word or two about this gentle and intelligent creature, Ynyn
Sathemoa
Mav, mother of my friend, wife to both a soldier and, well, perhaps a poet, exile from her homeland by loving choice: Sathe, as she insisted that I call her (and, indeed, that is precisely how her servants addressed her as well), must surely in her youth have been a beauty of rare and exotic quality. Rather smaller than any Fodduan female, she was neither precious in her bearing, as many tiny females are, nor coy; her pelt was full despite her age and of a toasted-auburn color, darker than that of our race, though lighter by far than those bigotry-inspired caricatures of her countrylamn that frequently appear in Mathas’s meaner publications. Her aristocratic carriage might have made the noblest Fodduan seem a clumsy peasant by comparison.

This comeliness had gracefully transformed itself over the years into a sort of cordial dignity, causing everyone with whom she came in contact, be he humble cabdriver or surdaughter of good family, to feel somehow elevated. Even here, amidst the muck and dampness of the animal shed, she seemed to illuminate the room in a strange and wondrous manner. Each of us felt warmer and more secure for her mere (if that word is appropriate) presence.

When we had eaten our rough meal, Mav disappeared for some moments into a remote corner of the building, returning shortly with a huge bundle of an odd fabric in his arms. “Well, here we have it, Mymy, the reason I insisted upon coming here, rain and all:
my
latest invention, and never one more dearly wanted!”

“Whatever are you speaking of, my dear Inquirer, I see nothing here but lam-heights of most uncomfortable-looking yard goods. What sort of invention is that?”

Mav turned to his mother, ignoring my question. “Here is one for you, my dear, that you may return to the house undampened. Take care with it, for there are as yet only a dozen like it in existence. I had meant to speak with Tis concerning their adoption by the Bucketeers, particularly in connection with the new liquid method for extinguishing fires. But this accursed murder took place shortly after I had them made up for demonstration, and—”

“Mav!” I interrupted impatiently. A ripple of amused exasperation was briefly visible in Sathe’s fur. “Will you
please
tell me what it is that you are talking about?”

His own fur, freshly dried, crinkled with delight. “Kindly do not speak so to your elders, Mymy, particularly to those rare and brilliant innovators among them. What you see before you now is the latest marvel of a marvelous age—the weatherproof cloak! As you are no doubt aware, the sap of certain cactuses may be distilled into a substance useful in making sealants for bottles, and—”

“As well as eradicating mistakes in penmanship, if I recall aright. What has that to do with—”

“Interrupting again! This same substance may be pressed into a flat sheet and bonded through the use of moderate heat into any ordinary clothing material. In that state, it becomes quite damp-proof and enables the wearer to negotiate in every sort of weather imaginable. Truly, I have found myself thinking lately that a
completely
sealed garment—and some supply of air—might allow a sailor to walk about beneath the water, such as might be necessary to repair the bottom of a ship or to retrieve some object that has been lost over the side.”

“Mav, you irrepressible dreamer! Who could possibly imagine wanting to do such a fantastic—” I stopped here, for I realized at once how much I was beginning to sound like Tis.

Mav, too, hesitated, an almost diffident element suddenly present in his countenance. “Well, I, for one, perhaps. Ahum! In the meanwhile, with your kindly cooperation, dear Mymy, let us demonstrate for my mother how this garment is to be donned and worn. That’s it, align the eyeholes so that you can see…Now, if you’ll permit me, we will fasten these ties about your upper…well, perhaps you had better do that for yourself.”

Sathe watched these proceedings with amused interest, then began to follow Mav’s directions. The cablam, at this point, looked up from his third helping of roast burrower. “I see, guv’nor! Why, I could take my rig ’most anywhere, anytime I wanted—an’ beat out all the rest of th’ boys doin’ it! How much of this here silver will you want for one of them cloaks?”

“For a fellow of your daring and insight?” Mav’s fur was positively kinky with delimited pride. “My compliments, and kindly take this one! Hmmm…I wonder whether there isn’t any surplus fabric left upon that back shelf.” Abruptly, he wandered off again, leaving me standing there to feel ridiculously like a nomad’s tent. Sathe crinkled a silent farewell and left the stable.

On another hand, with the fastenings done up (a task I believe would properly have required the assistance of at least three dressers), I began to see how my friend’s invention might actually be of some utility—on the one or two occasions each year when it rained. I wondered why this thought had not occurred to the driver as well, and then remembered that he was a male, and, like all such, enamored of gadgetry, anywhere, anytime, utterly without regard as to its practicality.

When Mav at last returned, it was with a bolt of his waterproofed fabric, a set of very large shears, and some odd hand tool, which he promptly informed us was intended for setting “grommets,” whatever they may have been. He draped the cloth along the ground beside the cablam’s resting watu, made a few quick, sliding cuts that might have done credit to the city’s finest tailor, and began folding and fastening the fabric into an odd shape.

“Now, my good fellow, if you will kindly hold your animal, I believe that I can offer him the same protection that you will enjoy henceforward in inclement weather. Mind the jaws! Hold him—that’s it!”

Together, with much shying and prancing on the part of the beast, they draped the frightened creature in the folds of the material, and Mav riveted the strings in appropriate places so that the newly fashioned garment, substantially the same as ours, though more voluminous, would not work its way off as the animal moved about. Allowances had been made for the odd, essentially four-cornered configuration of the watu, and soon it was resigned to wearing the cloak, and in fact settled back to picking up its fodder with a claw and stuffing it through a slitted aperture that Mav had thoughtfully provided.

“Capital!” exclaimed my companion. “Please let me know of any difficulties you may encounter so that, in future, I may make corrections. Our new means of fighting fires frightens and endangers the Department’s animals quite as thoroughly as it does our gallant Bucketeers. Which reminds me…”

He walked across the stable toward a wooden box affixed to one of the roof pillars. Inside, there was revealed a telephone, which instrument he activated, requesting of the operator a number I knew all too well.

“Vyssu? I trust that I am doing you no inconvenience, for I have quite an extraordinary favor to ask. Why, yes, I am quite well…yes, and so is Mymy, who is with me as we speak—Vyssu says hullo, Mymy. Why, yes, of course, Mymy says hullo.”

I had not.

“Uh, Vyssu, about the favor. Could you send round your steam carriage immediately? It is most impor—what? Of course I know that it is raining. That is why I’ve called you, for I remember that your carriage is quite weatherproof, and—Of course I am, would I have called you unless…Thank you, then, my dear, I’m at my mother’s digs in Uppermost, the watu barn, if you’ll believe it of me. I’ll have a small gift for you and a large gratuity for Fatpa—as well as a substantial jolt or two should he require it after so harrowing an experience as driving in the rain. After all, the poor dear was only a timid highwaylam of old, and—Oh, very well, then, the same to you, and thanks.”

“Mav?” I asked, my voice sounding odd beneath the stifling cloak. “Surely you do not intend to—Merciful Trine, I see that you do! And me, too, I suppose? Ah, well, it was not to be hoped otherwise. That’s what these raincloaks are for, aren’t they?”

He stood watching me with some amusement. “Dear Mymy, we have our work, and a little moisture mustn’t be permitted to deter a Bucketeer, must it?”

“Why ever not?” I countered, but I knew, in vain.

The establishment of Doctor Zanyw N’botpemy
Ensda
was situated in a suitably disreputable portion of the city, surrounded by such others as dispense herbs, good-luck tokens, and a thousand other varieties of bad advice that operated in direct competition with that which the good doctor himself administered.

His “offices,” which bore the look of having once been a greengrocer’s, fronted upon a grimy street; two large and rather untidy triangular glass windows (one of them long broken and desultorily repaired with sticking tape) were painted nearly opaque with symbols such as might impress a gullible and superstitious lower-class clientele. The door was firmly bolted and the place unlit from within.

Mav, muffled absurdly in his own invention, stepped from the carriage, insisting, as he did, that I accompany him. Despite my own raincloak, I was regretting that I hadn’t worn a sturdier half-dozen walking gloves. Vyssu—for yes, that is who had driven her machine to his mother’s place, no doubt leaving her bandit friend before a toasty blaze at home—stayed warm and dry within the machine.

“Curious,” the investigator observed, more to himself than to me, “this should be about the time when Ensda begins his day’s work; his sort always operates best in the twilight. Still, there is this rain, and— Hallo, what’s this?” He rattled at the bolt upon the door, held there by a sturdy padlock that, for the record, I will state was brightly finished and of recent manufacture. “This ancient, worn-out thing seems nearly to have rusted away in the rain, doesn’t it?”