Their Majesties' Bucketeers (12 page)

And so it proved, for he’d replaced the cranking lever of a common rotary machine gun with a sizable pulley and run a rubber belt from there to a small electric engine. “What rate of fire can you attain?”

He peered at me, expecting disbelief. “Around six thousand per minute, theoretically. Allowing time to replace magazines—and the occasional sheared firing pin or bollixed casing—perhaps half that.”

I was indeed impressed, and told him so, adding something of my own adventures regarding such a gun. He told me his Inventors’ Club—which he invited me to join—had given him encouragement.

“You know the problem, though,” he said, reshrouding the weapon with canvas. He pointed toward the rafters where, to my astonishment, there hung several oil lanterns on gimbals. “The goddamp Navy hasn’t even heard of electricity yet! Why, on one of those new steamers, with a dynamo driven by the engines, we could mount a dozen of these guns for the kind of close protection artillery won’t provide and rifle fire can’t. But here am I, a rattling hulk of a lam, stuck aboard a rattling hulk of a ship. Nor will the Admiralty answer my letters!”

I commiserated with him, understanding all too well the deliberately backward nature of Imperial institutions, whereupon he revealed to me another of his contrivances. Like the flash gun Niitood had invented, it was based upon a juicing box; only this one was connected, through an incomprehensible apparatus, to a copper coil of some kind and terminated, at the other end, in a railroad telegrapher’s key and the earpiece of a telephone.

“Wireless telegraphy!” he exclaimed, and began to describe to me the operating principles, which I still do not fully understand. I did comprehend that this was his intended means of replacing the semaphore towers still employed by the Navy and of greatly increasing the range of communications in general. Someday he hoped to produce a device to transmit the lamviin voice, and he spoke dreamily of a distant future in which photographs—moving photographs such as they are experimenting with on the Continent—might be conveyed through the air as well.

Truly, my dears, this is an age of lamn-made miracles, and we are fortunate to be living at such a time when humble reporters, elderly sea doctors and, if modesty permits, even Bucketeers such as myself, may dabble about and possibly improve the conditions under which our fellow lamviin exist.

Regrettably, as with the rotary electric gun, our Admiralty disdained to show the slightest interest whatever in Hedgyt’s wireless telegraphy, and between contending with such recalcitrance and Srafen’s sudden death, he was himself rapidly losing interest in life.

I asked the old fellow whether he had ever married, particularly Srafen. In answer, he wound up his unmodified juicing box, for we had since returned to his small office. He offered me a jolt; I thanked him, but deferred first in his favor.

When he had taken it and once again relaxed, he said, “Rhe wouldn’t have me—rather, rher family wouldn’t, and, radical as rhe may have been in other things, rhe would not disobey in this—I think because a professorship awaited at the end of rher enlistment.” He mused and wound the box again, forgetting that he’d offered me a turn. When the magneto stopped, he said, “Not that I blamed rher much—it’s a hard row for a surrie, and was harder by a damp sight, then. Rhe got what rhe needed, and I wished rher well. We were always fast friends after an’ I was glad t’ help when I could.”

He wound the box again and took a jolt. “Anyway, I had my career too, what thersh—
there
was of it. Goddamp Admiralty, goddamp ol’ worm-eaten sandbucket
Dobotpo
, an’ pretty soon—watch it, son, it sneaks up on y’—goddamp ol’
me
!” Again he took the current. “Well, here’sh to ya, Srafen, m’lost love. Y’did good, an’ I did ash good ash I could, too. No regretsh, no…no re…”

Hedgyt slid sideways off his stool in electrically induced hann. I straightened his limbs as best I could and left him there with his memories. Before I departed, though, I cranked up his juicing box and had one to the shade of the Professor, too, Pah bless rher. Rhe was a second surfather to me, the parent of my intellect, and it made me fond of Hedgyt that he had loved rher, too.

Mav assisted Vyssu and me in clearing away the remnants of our meal, and he stirred the sand blanket into the soil, but he was silent and thoughtful. Perhaps it was the setting or the conversation, but I watched Vyssu and found myself admiring little inconsequential things about her—the graceful curve of her wrists as she collected the cactus blossoms she’d set out as a centerpiece, her deep and luminous eyes, the humorous, intelligent set of her fur.

I recall thinking that, in this modern world, which Mav loved so deeply, perhaps there was less room for class distinctions than in our fathers’ time, and perhaps even our fathers had been wrong. Why, just because my ancestors had conquered her ancestors—

Then I remembered what Vyssu’s occupation was, and my hearts shied like a startled watu, my mind amazed at how corruptible even a well-born Fodduan can be, distracted by a pretty carapace and glossy pelt.

Mymysiir
Offe Woom, scolded a voice within me—not unlike my mother’s—what
could
you have been thinking of!

X: The Field Narrows

I
was surprised to learn that Srafen had kept rher home along the northern margin of South Hedgerow, a neighborhood quite comely and fashionable enough, yet hardly what one would expect, given rher comparative wealth and renown. Nonetheless, it was entirely consistent with rher naval background, lying as it did just above the military suburb of Brassie, and with what Mav had told me of rher unpretentious attitude toward life.

What surprised me even more, I suppose, was that rher husband and wife, both of the scoundrels, could be found there even still. The many scandalous rumors of their separate…well…adventures, made it seem, at least to me, somehow indecent that they should not by now have made more suitable arrangements. As I was discovering rapidly in this affair, decency is rather more elastic a conception than my parents had brought me up to believe.

Upon our return from the picnic, Mav telephoned from his mother’s carriage house. There was some sort of celebration in her cactus garden; music drifted slowly down the curried lawns in our direction, and he was loath to interrupt the festivities, although I should like to have met the fabled lady of Dezer. In any case, a cab arrived that carried us first to Vyssu’s home, where she debarked in pursuit of whatever it was that occupied her afternoons. I must confess my estimate of her, for good or worse, was changing, and, most remarkably, by the knitting I had seen her twice now busy at.

Somehow, one never thinks of disreputable females knitting, does one?

From the Kiiden, we crossed the city again to South Hedgerow, a pleasant drive through varied localities, because, through a second electrical conversation, my friend had arranged an interview for us with Srafen’s erstwhile mates.

To my regret, this seemed to be the last of an admittedly lengthy stretch of beautiful weather. The arms of Pah protect us quite well from much of what the Rommish Ocean has to offer, but they cannot defend us from the rare southern storm. Although the sun still shone brightly, there was a narrow band of purple darkness seaward that promised at least a day of the sort of dripping immobility that can paralyze a city like Mathas.

Once or twice yearly, all traffic ceases; lamviin hide themselves behind shuttered windows and sealed doors; fireplaces fill the atmosphere so full of smoke that one can scarcely see the opposite side of the street. I recalled such a storm the year before that had deluged the city with over a finger-width of vile precipitation in the short span of a week. It was a time for confined children to be cross, for elders to complain about their aching joints, for farmers and gardeners to worry that the rot might creep into their cactus or wash their lichen beds away.

However, despite the impending meteorological calamity, it was with considerable high spirits that Mav and I drew up before the residence of the late Professor, for the little penciled tickings upon his list of suspect characters were accumulating with fair rapidity, and it was the detective’s fervent conviction that inevitably, sooner or later, we would run across some nervous individual in whom guilt was plainly manifest, and there would be a tidy end to it.

The Srafen holdings, as householders in this neighborhood were wont to express it, consisted of a respectable three-story house with several outbuildings set up upon a knoll several dozen lam-heights from the road. Indeed, in this region of Mathas, we were practically taking another brief countryside holiday. Beyond the ornate wrought-iron fencing, a high, dense grove of skottii and macrostibs lay wrapped around the place, very nearly concealing the house from casual view, while neatly cultivated notoc bordered the flagging of the drive, and, where no taller growth shut out the light, decorative plots of yellow and orange algaesand lent cheerful color to the somber scarlet of the tall cactus.

Mav assisted me from the cab, paid the driver, and we stepped up onto the verandah, where a male servant bade us enter and took our outer garments. “The
master
will see you directly,” he reported without particular enthusiasm, although a subtle sneer in his fur seemed directed toward either us or his employer—I was uncertain which. In any case, sneer and servant disappeared immediately, so I dismissed the question from my mind and tried to remember what I had been told of Srafen’s spendthrift husband.

In this I was to be interrupted, although no one’s husband
or
master greeted us. Instead, an expensive and voluminous concatenation of crepes and silks and satins in the very latest fashion and the chicest shades of mourning blue swept suddenly around and down a curving flight of marble stairs, which were the centerpiece of the entry hall, and announced itself to be Liimevi
Myssmo
Law, the grieving widow of our late Professor, and wife of that same Law whom we thought we were about to interview.

“You really must forgive dear Lawsy,” she gushed, conducting us into a well-appointed parlor off the entryway. Except for narrow paths for walking between the furniture, the colored sand in this room had been set out in occult patterns, and then fixed with resins to preserve the esoteric arrangement. The unmistakable gluey smell was fresh, indicating that this refurbishment had taken place only recently. “He’s simply too, too broken up at our loss to be much use to anyone. Perhaps I may be of some assistance?”

This last utterance was accompanied by a curling simper in her pelt, which made the prospect of striking her (an impulse whose intense ferocity took me quite by surprise) most tempting. For Mav’s professional sake, however, as well as for the sake of my own dignity, I decided to attempt noble forbearance.

At least until some further provocation might offer itself.

“Indeed, you may, Madame Law, for we had also wished to ask of
you
certain questions concerning the murder of your surhusband. May I introduce my associate, Missur
Mymysiir
Offe Woom, and I see that your butler has placed my card upon your table.”

She passed a hand over Mav’s card, withdrew it as if it were some small poisonous animal, then made to pick it up again. “Do please be seated, and I’ll ring for kood. You are, then, Agot Edmoot
Mav
of Their Majesties’ Bucketeers? How very peculiar: I am certain I have heard your name before, sir.”

“Then I am flattered.” He took a cushion close beside her, while I felt well content with something considerably more distant. “I was a student of Srafen’s, as well as rher great admirer. I understand that you, too, were a student of rhers.”

The faintest shiver of—what, embarrassment?—crept across her highly decorated carapace before it was drowned savagely in what seemed to be a habitually honeyed expression. “Why, so I was, sir, and a little later on, came to assist poor, dear Srafen in rher laboratory, cataloging every sort of disagreeable and nasty crawly thing in vile, odiferous liquids—and all of them with such long, confusing names. It was there, at the University, we both met Lawsy, who offered to help out with the air pumps and other mechanical contraptions, and a year after that, we were married.”

At last she rang for kood, which gratified me, for it promised to dispel the odor of the setting resin rising in almost visible miasma from the carpet. There were upward of half a hundred pointed questions I should like to have followed her last statement with, chiefly why, in the name of everything dry and holy, had Srafen ever even
spoken
to this babbling cretin. But this was Mav’s investigation, so with reluctance, I kept my peace.

He said, “I see, madame. Then, all in all, for how long were you acquainted with Professor Srafen?”

“Why, what a peculiar question to ask of a widow.” She toyed with the bows and ruffles of her mourning weeds. “Now let me think…I suppose, from the first lecture of rhers I attended, some eight or nine years in all. Why ever do you ask such a thing?” Again the revolting curl swept through her fur.

To which Mav rippled polite reassurance. I attempted to compose myself in a similar attitude, despite the strongest of temptations to the contrary. “I apologize, dear lady, if my questioning disturbs you in any way. May I call you Myssmo? Perhaps it won’t seem quite so cold and formal then. Very well, my purpose is to attempt to discover whatever person or persons wished to have Professor Srafen out of the way. As that was to be the subject of my next question, would you kindly consider that I have already asked it?”

Errgh!
How
could he be so…
civil
with this foul creature? She paused for what seemed to me an unduly long time—in the light of my developing opinion that she did not have that many thoughts to sort through. Perhaps she had simply forgotten Mav’s question.

“Why, for the life of me, I cannot think of anyone at all who might wish to injure the poor funny old dear. Srafen was so kindly, absent-minded, and affectionately thought of by, well, just
everyone
. I am quite mystified, to tell the truth.”

Yet not precisely wracked with grief, I thought, and, glancing around at her opulent surroundings, I could well understand why. Everywhere, the elegance of what must be presumed to have been Srafen’s simple tastes was pasted over with a veneer of cheap—but expensive—artificial gaudiness. From the ceiling hung a cunning furry representation of the Martyred Trine, and everywhere, a thousand little balls of fringe and velvet ropes.

How I positively
itched
to put a few “little surry questions” of my own!

A surmale domestic, rustling in stiff, apparently newly purchased livery, brought the kood in an elaborate service.

“You know,” persisted Mav, “of no person, no enemy, who might have desired ill for Srafen?” He asked her, also, whether she might object if he prepared his pipe—a courtesy he had never shown to me. A miniature flurry of calculated indignation and concern skimmed across the surface of her pelt.

“Why, Mav, if I may presume to call you that, I am surprised! Do you not find the unnatural effluvium of such a habit disturbing to your psychic aura? Extrasensory perception is such a delicate, fragile—”

“I humbly beg your pardon, madame,” he replied,
and actually put his pipe away!
Perhaps the thousandfold effluvia from the carpet had affected his delicate and fragile sensibilities. “It is my understanding that you were actually present the evening of the murder, is that not so?”

He was answered by a dramatic shudder. “Why, yes. It was such a
terrible
thing, wasn’t it? The awful sight, the noise…”

Which might have sounded precisely to her, I thought, like the ringing of a merchant’s register. I wondered if anyone intended ever to light the kood when it occurred to me that, if someone did, the room positively swimming in fumes, we might witness yet another explosion, this time from its interior.

“Indeed,” replied Mav. “And did you not see the religious demonstrators in the street that night? Do you not think it possible that they might hold some deadly animosity toward your surhusband?”

“Oh, dear! I’d quite forgotten them. Such ungentlelamly riffraff they were, at that! If
only
poor, dear Srafen had listened to me. Do you
really
think that they—”

“That is what Missur Mymy and I are endeavoring to ascertain. What do you mean, if only Srafen had listened to you?” Was that an irritated quivering I saw about his nostrils, or merely my increasingly unreliable vision?

She tilted her carapace forward a trifle in what she must have imagined was a dramatically conspiratorial gesture. “Well, you see, I’d had rher trilune cast just the day before—by sheerest of coincidence, you understand—and you simply won’t believe the
ghastly
warning revealed in the equations! Why, it cautioned rher plainly to avoid certain business dealings for the rest of the week and that a conflict was in the offing that might lead to personal inconvenience! Isn’t that just
too
uncanny? And that
very
evening—”

“Pardon me, did you convey this…information to Srafen?”

“Why certainly I did, and do you know what rhe told me?”

There was a long pause. “I can well imagine; Srafen’s views on that sort of …thing were quite familiar to me. Let me ask you—”

“You know, I’ve just had the most perfectly
marvelous
idea! Why don’t we all ask the estimable Dr. Ensda, a very great lam and my own personal spiritual adviser—I am sure that you have heard of him—to cast a trilune for your investigation? We would need to know the moment it began, of course; I’m sure that he could tell us straightaway whether you will meet with success, and…”—here, her carapace tilted even farther, her voice becoming so low that I could scarcely hear it—“and perhaps he might even ferret out the culprit! Well, what do you think of that?”

I concede that it is remotely possible that Mav was taken speechless out of admiration for Myssmo’s suggestion. On the other hand, he may have simply been deep in thought, considering it. On the third hand, like myself, he may have been busy framing the reply that it truly merited. At length, he spoke again: “My dear lady, that is certainly an idea. And I will put it, allowing credit where it is due, to the good doctor myself, for this afternoon I intend to call upon him, directly we are finished here.