Their Majesties' Bucketeers

by L. Neil Smith

  This time, instead of crinkling, his laughter was outright and prolonged. When he had once more regained his composure, he answered, “That is the entire matter in a prawnshell, Mymy: ‘to whom it has happened?’ Ask instead, who it is who has made it happen, as our little comb hawker will. The answer, my very dear, may surprise you not at all.”

  Some years ago (Mav told me as we continued to the Precinct), in Lower Honwath upon the eastern side of the river bordering the dreadful Ipmu Moors district, there happened to be born amongst the meagerest of circumstances a child of—shall we express it ‘casual liaison’?—whose unfortunate mother passed away shortly afterward.

  You have never been to Lower Honwath, Mymy, I am sure, and it is likely that you shall never have occasion to go there, although the fabled Tesret Hurrier and other trains pass nearby to it; one may look across its humble rooftops and crumbling chimneypots from the trestles if one is of such a mind. It is a place which makes the meanest neighborhoods of the Kiiden seem quite like Upper Hedgerow by comparison, where a helpless stranger to its grimy streets is naïve if he expects something other than having his eyes pierced for him before traveling a single block after dark, and where the most revolting of household vermin are the only playthings children may hope to possess.

  It is in this grim, impoverished atmosphere that our little female—for that is what she later proved to be—grew up and, in a manner of speaking, eventually prospered and flourished, reared by her mother’s colleagues, also cutpurses, street vendors, and thieves. She became something of a mascot to them, and, as soon as she could walk and speak articulately, found herself an occupation of sorts carrying messages for a coin or three, to and fro for the denizens of the alleys, saving them exposure on the streets and the consequent effort of dodging those few Bucketeers our Service provides that area.

  This enterprise she soon extended in a flash of native brilliance to nearby Fasmou Common, an industrial enclave between Lower Honwath, from which it draws its factory workers but is otherwise a different world, and Lower Dockside, where habitués would have to reassess their putative lamly toughness if they traveled but a few blocks inland from the south branch of the River Dybod. The factory owners and managers appreciated the little female’s message-running, and she soon had other urchins to whom she delegated much of this effort hither and yon, even to our own side of the river upon occasion.

  At about the time when people learn what gender they’re to be, our little friend was herself bearing messages for, among others, a wealthy older factor by the name of Dahwoms Ott Fiddeu—a trademark I’m sure any gardener would recognize for its synthetic fertilizers—who, aside from pursuing an aggressive string of businesses, possessed a remarkable reputation as a rake of the most unsavory character.

  Dahwoms himself soon spied our little Vyssu—for that, of course, is precisely who the heroine of this tale happens to be—and recognized the possibilities: a lovely, innocent, virginal child with little (he thought, for he did not know her as we do) reason to hope for more than a lowly, miserable future existence. A young surmale who worked for her also caught his eye, a lurry who, like our Vyssu and for the same reasons, bore but one name: Obodiin.

  In rher own way, this Obodiin was fully as ambitious as Vyssu or Dahwoms, although rhe wanted both the enterprise and innovative thoughtfulness which either of them owned. Rhe worked quite energetically enough in Vyssu’s behalf, and, when the elderly millionaire put his proposition to them, accepted without a trace of the hesitancy Vyssu initially manifested. The offer he tendered them was this, that they should live in his house with him, receive a private education and enjoy every luxury, in recompense for which they should keep themselves available to him for whatever purposes he might desire.

  Now, Mymy, let your pelt be still! I quite agree, it was a vile and debasing arrangement. Nonetheless, it was openly stated and freely acquiesced to. Dahwoms, at the time, was rather old, and I suspect that even our heroine did not expect the relationship to continue into perpetuity.

  In any case, Vyssu and her erstwhile employe came to Middle Hedgerow, although the proposition turned out substantially differently than anyone anticipated. She was, as she is now, a charming creature, astute and graceful, quick, and possessing a natural elegance perceptible even to the least sensitive of lamn. To his surprise and horror, Dahwoms quickly found himself looking upon her as a daughter and treating her accordingly. Obodiin, who I gather shared something of the old lam’s less honorable fleshly inclinations, had desired Vyssu for some long while; that, and rher cupidity, led to rher eventual undoing, although precisely how this was motivated, Vyssu wasn’t to know for a long time.

  For five years, the three of them and numerous servants dwelt in that great old house in Middle Hedgerow in circumstances of complete respectability. Old Dahwoms kept to his part of the bargain entirely, without making any claims upon the children or demanding aught from them but that they grace his table with their presence and otherwise grant to him their kind companionship. For this and many other favors, Vyssu came to love him greatly, but Obodiin, dissatisfied, grew bolder as the years of frustration piled one upon another. No amount of genteel company nor polite education would satisfy rher.

  One dark night following a birthday dinner party given in rher honor, Obodiin pushed a tipsy Dahwoms down the stairs and, with the household money—no inconsiderable amount—absconded to the Continent.

  Still grieving the loss of her adopted father, Vyssu, now become a poised, sophisticated young lady, temporarily set elegance aside, deciding to put the rough teachings of her inglorious origins and upbringing to good use. She followed the ungrateful Obodiin to the Continent, where she spent a full two years alternatively tutoring the children of the rich and powerful—incidentally making many impressive friends in the process—and seeking out the whereabouts of Dahwoms’s murderer.

  Somewhere along the way, I am not sure precisely how, nor am I sure I want to know, Vyssu encountered Fatpa, a highwaylam of illustrious repute, almost a local hero in a region which was subsequently doomed to involuntary incorporation into the Podfettian Hegemony. In those days it was a wild, adventurous sort of place where males carried enormous pistols to defend themselves, females and surmales were often kidnapped and taken to wife as a tradition, and life itself, though dearly bought at times, was cheap as tissue paper in a hatbox.

  In those craggy, ill-explored mountains, Vyssu struck a bargain of her own with the robber. There was an outpost watering station for the stagecoach lines where she would catch the express she had somehow learned that Obodiin would be upon. Once the coach reached a place which they had mutually agreed was satisfactory, Fatpa would halt the coach. And all went as planned.

  “Stand and deliver—your money or your life!”

  The stagecoach screeched to a halt, its frightened watun stamping and foaming about the jaws. The driver reached into his box for a fowling piece long obsolete in any civilized portion of our Empire, but Fatpa was upon him in a trice, snatching away the gun and striking the fellow with it in a stunning but charitably light and otherwise uninjurious manner.

  This, Vyssu had insisted upon as a part of their agreement.

  The driver climbed down from the carriage into the dusty roadbed, and the passengers, an odd assortment of travelers, vagabonds, and local peasants, followed him. Among these were Vyssu, heavily veiled as is the custom in that part of the world, and a surmale, equally unrecognizable, except that she had followed rher for days in the capital and knew rher true identity full well.

  Fatpa quickly deprived all the passengers of their worldly goods, even taking a brace of domesticated sandshrimp from a peasant woman and dangling them across the reinrail of his chariot. Wielding a huge pistol in each of his hands, he bade the group remount, halting Vyssu and the surmale at the last moment.

  “Hold on, then, it gets a bit lonely up here in these hills, and I could do with a bit of fun before I let the pair of you go on!” He waved all three pistols threate
ningly, and Vyssu was appropriately outraged, as was the surmale. However, they complied with his demand to stay behind, and the stagecoach driver gratefully made haste away from the scene of the recent and future crime.

  When the dust had settled from this getaway, the pistols turned, leveled at the surmale alone, and one of them was handed across to Vyssu who shed her veils. “Obodiin, remove your hat so that I may look upon you before you die!” She had not ever shot a pistol before, and it waggled up and down in her hand in a manner far more frightening than any properly aimed weapon would have been.

  Obodiin pulled rher hat and veils away, shocked to hear this voice, to see this face from a past rhe thought was long behind rher. “Why, Vyssu, what a sweet surprise to see you, darling, whatever are you doing in this awful place?”

  “Seeing that justice is done, Obodiin. This is my friend Fatpa, here. I suggest that you hold still, for he is a deadly shot, and even better with a knife, which he can throw with startling accuracy.”

  “But what is it you want from me? I have done you no harm! Indeed, I have always harbored extremely fond memories of you, my dear.”

  “Oh, be still! Obodiin, this is scarcely a kood social or even a court of law, so I’ll not bandy words with you. You murdered poor old Dahwoms, three of the servants saw you do it from separate vantages and independently came to me to tell me so. I found proof that you had arranged to travel days before your evil and ungrateful deed, and I found the empty cashbox in Dahwoms’s study, as well. Do you deny any of this?”

  Obodiin fidgeted, looked about rher for an avenue of escape, and then said shrewdly, “No, I do not. We grew up together, Vyssu, and did many things nearly as bad as that before we knew what gender we would be. You have grown soft from easy living, though, and will not kill me in revenge—you’re too genteel and civilized. As it would be craven to hire the job done, rather than do it yourself—and I see that you believe that, too—you’ll not have your ruffian dispose of me. So I believe I’ll go, now. It’s been pleasant seeing you again after all these years. Perhaps we can do it again, some time, what do you say?”

  With that, Vyssu discharged her pistol straight into one of Obodiin’s eyes, and the guilty culprit dropped dead at her feet. They left rher body there, riding away behind Fatpa’s watun, and the fellow has been with her ever since.

  When they returned to Foddu, Vyssu discovered, as haste had not allowed her to before her departure, that Dahwoms had left her all his fortune. It is to be surmised from certain remarks that Obodiin made before the murder that rhe knew of this, expecting Vyssu to share her good fortune, and undertook to hasten its arrival.

  Yes, Mymy, I know that an inheritance scarcely constitutes the sort of betterment I described in the case of the comb vendor, but that is not all of the story. Vyssu took what was left to her, no mighty fortune, to be sure, for the properties of Dahwoms were heavily mortgaged and his vices had consumed no little amount, as well. From what remained after his debts were paid, she built a second fortune, vastly greater than the first. You will believe me, I trust, when I inform you that Vyssu is one of the wealthiest individuals in all of Mathas. Given our unspeakable social class system, this will never buy her respectability, but it does buy her respect. The Archsacerdot himself sometimes borrows money from her for various Church enterprises, as do certain members of the royal family.

  “I think I understand,” said I. “There always did seem more to Vyssu than was readily apparent, but tell me, Mav, why does she remain in the Kiiden, then? What became of Dahwoms’s old home in Middle Hedgerow?”

  “That place? If you can keep a secret, Mymy—it’s highly important that you do, as you shall see.”

  “I don’t know as I should like the burden of so important a confidence, Mav. But you ought to know me well enough by now to realize that I understand when to keep my silence.” I felt mildly insulted again, but attempted not to show it.

  Mav removed his pipe from a nostril and examined it, a ripple of humor running through his fur. “So you do, my dear, I apologize sincerely. And I shall tell you on any account, for it is quite amazing, really. The place in question is riddled with a hundred secret passages and hidden rooms, having to do with Dahwoms’s various unsavory practices. They are all most carefully concealed and connected now with an underground passage to some nearby buildings.

  “Dahwoms’s house was sold some years ago and is now the Podfettian Embassy—there, you know the place! The tunnels run to Their Majesties’ intelligence agencies and there is nothing which transpires inside the building of which we—by which I mean the Government—are not intimately aware! Clever lady, our Vyssu, for it was her idea, and carried out at a considerable profit to her, I might add!

  I interrupted Mav’s quiet laughter with another question. “But, Mav, if Vyssu is so rich and, well, worthy of respect, why does she remain in the Kiiden, operating a bawdy house?”

  “Mymy, I am shocked that you know such words! Really! Never mind, it is another of her ideas, you see. You know the sort of place she runs, straightforward, no perversions, simple, innocent—if you’ll permit the term in this connexion—pleasure? This gives to young females and surmales of the poorer districts gainful employment in an atmosphere protective of their dignity. It also provides Vyssu with a stock from which to draw the matches which she makes for the upper classes, for she educates her employes in all the social graces and finds for them good marriages when their prime is past.

  “In her own way, Mymy, Vyssu is a great revolutionary, for, once she is done, the hereditary distinction in this city between upper and lower classes will be illusory in its entirety. What do you think of that?”

  XIII: The Innocent Culprits

  “I never meant to kill him!”

  Mav’s broken body lay across a trio of hastily assembled cushions in a parlor at Srafen’s home, to which we had, in happier times, not before been admitted. This quiet chamber, apparently, had been the late Professor’s sole domain, its walls completely plastered up with diagrams and sketches of countless hideous creatures, only the veriest few of which are still extant upon the globe, the majority long extinct, known by nothing more than their scant subsoddean remains.

  This vista of dubious esthetic appeal was interrupted only by huge floor-to-ceiling racks for the familiar cylindrical forms of books, their labeled ends revealing that no few of them had been written by Srafen rherself, including—(filed alphabetically like any of the other works here)—rher classic The Ascent of Lamviin.

  The room was filled agreeably enough with the scent of ancient, well-seasoned cactuswood wainscotting, pereskine shelving, and dozens of free-standing glazed display cases of exotic origin and material—as well as from the hundred or more bizarre biological specimens preserved within them. The place, however, smelled not in the slightest of the carpet-setting resin whose malevolent odor permeated and polluted the remainder of the house, a point most definitely in its favor at the moment. There was, too, a firegrate whose would-be cheerful blaze failed utterly to dispel the gloom which had settled over us all owing to the unhappy fate of my poor detective friend. Considering Mav’s fervent desire to finish his effort well, it had seemed both to Vyssu and myself that bringing him here to his old teacher’s house had been the most fitting thing we could do.

  “I tell you, it was not my doing, at all!”

  This had been Srafen’s faithless husband, Law, who had spoken, his wastrel gaze cast downward as he did so upon Mav’s silent, inert form. I had applied what inadequate skill I possessed as well as the impoverished contents of my bag in defense of my dear companion’s mortal existence, yet the wound was terrible to behold even now, having bled heavily and darkly through its bandages. It was that very joint, strained in the act of preserving his own and Ensda’s life, almost to the extent of being severed, which had, so many years ago, suffered near-crippling damage from the arrow of a savage. It had now been forcefully reopened upon some hidden, poorly healed seam, spilling out Mav’s life onto
the cobbles of Commoner’s Bridge.

  I had not been able to staunch the flow; the villain, Ensda, had escaped his own doom virtually unscathed, at the grievous expense of a far better lam than he. I was determined that the scoundrel and charlatan now be brought to stern justice.

  Vyssu, the grimmest of imaginable arrangements in her fur, had agreed.

  Our return into the city, as I have indicated, marked the lowest point so far in my life. The lunological faker we had tucked neatly between two seats. Had my friend not been there with us, too, gradually losing his already pitiably weakened grasp upon existence, this “doctor” should have seemed most comical a spectacle, rocking back and forward upon the bottom of his carapace with the motion of the carriage, his limbs having been fastened together neatly above his jaws. He cursed vehemently at us, shattering the reverie which had preoccupied me, cursed Mav, cursed the cab which he had chosen for his ill-fated escape, cursed the partners he had chosen for his crimes. He likewise cursed the day on which he’d first begun telling people what to do on the predication of the supposed relative positions of the moons of Sodde Lydfe.

  “You cretins!” he exploded, causing me to wish vainly for some means of immobilizing his nostrils—I thought of several drugs, of which I had none, and of my professional ethics which, in Ensda’s case, were rapidly evaporating. “How you all would stand on line, clutching your pitiable earnings, eager to hand them over to anyone who would make decisions for you! I actually once spent an entire afternoon sagaciously explaining a lunoscopic chart which, I discovered afterward, I’d inadvertently hung upside-down upon the easel! And yet you stood there by appointment, raptly listening, eyes turned inward blissfully at the comforting prospect that you’d never be called upon again to strain yourselves to generate an independent thought!”

  Having virtually resigned myself by now to losing the battle for my dear friend’s life, I dully allowed a bit of my attention to drift toward the conlam. “Yet you, ‘Doctor,’ made your contemptible living from those you mock, explaining the positions of the Martyred Trine.”