Their Majesties' Bucketeers (5 page)

“You
what
?” Tis stood straight up, and even the stranger seemed suddenly to pay more attention to the conversation. Briefly, and with many a kindly emendment, the detective related how we had met Niitood in the Hose & Springbow. However, all that this anecdote accomplished, at least for the moment, was that Tis seized eagerly upon the reporter’s somewhat threatening intoxicated remarks against the Professor.

Mav did protest that this, too, was insufficient evidence.

“Never mind,” insisted Tis. “The fellow’s clearly a dangerous radical and has condemned himself. Here’s the way of it, then.” He glanced once again toward the stranger for approval. “What I want—Aren’t you gone
yet
, Mymy? There’s surries’ work below, I’m sure, and lamtalk yet to be accomplished here. Now
off
with you!”

The remainder of the negotiations between them I shall, in the manner of ancient historians, be compelled to relate from inference, as if I had stood eavesdropping outside the office door. Naturally, I did no such thing, but returned, instead, to my comrades in the infirmary.

“Look here, Mav—Oh, do sit down, Inquirer, and get your pipe out, if you wish. I’ve a stimulating new mixture from the Continent you might enjoy to try.” Here there was a pause as the gentlelamn attended to the mechanics of their vices. “Now, as I was saying, you needn’t take the situation as irretrievably wet and without hope. In your belief, we haven’t enough to put this Niitood between granite slabs where he belongs. Well, here’s your chance, then.
Prove
his guilt completely, beyond any question; we’ll see if we can’t do a bit more in future about this detectiving business of yours, eh?”

There followed some few words, which were indistinctly rendered and didn’t seem to originate from Mav’s or Tis’s corner of the room.

“Quite right,” Tis replied. “We only ask that you do it quickly.”

“I was not aware there was a need for haste,” Mav said with an ironic tone.

“Erruhm! Well, the sooner we are shut of this nasty business, the better. And incidentally, with the firm understanding that we are not establishing a precedent, I have decided that we’ll try your other idea as well.”

“Which idea, sir? I have many.”

“So you do, Mav, ahum! I refer to this notion of pursuing your duties unencumbered by your uniform—although why you should not be perfectly proud to wear it…well, er, never mind that now. It is settled: you shall go about your duties in this matter in civilian attire.”

“Anything you say, sir, and thank you. I do have one additional request which—”

“
Oh, for Pah’s sake, Mav, what is it now?
”

“Well, sir, could you spare me a Bucketeer or two as assistants?”

“Absolutely not! We’re overworked as it is, and I’ll not take firefighters from where they’re needed and waste them on—”

Here, again, there was that mumbling as before.

“Oh, I say,
indeed
, good Inquirer, take Mymy! Rhe’ll be of little use until this nonsense is done with; possibly rhe’ll prove so adept at it, they’ll make
detectiving
a surmale occupation, too! Haw, haw, how’d you like that?”

I confess that my hearts gave a discoordinated flutter when I—er,
inferred
this development later. I was busy, quite busy at my ordinary work when Mav arrived, somewhat reluctantly, I believe, to inform me of it.

I’m not sure how I personally felt about conducting my new duties in civilian dress. I was rather fond of my uniform, having been put to somewhat greater pains to earn it than any male. It was, indeed, adapted from male clothing and appropriately spare and utilitarian—quite unlike the clumsy antiquated fettering of “proper” surmalehood. The insignia were sewn into the cap and sleeves, but it was now Mav’s idea (among many, many others recorded in that notecase of his) that one of the embroidered patches might be removed and carried in a billfold so that we might, upon appropriate occasion, officially display our credentials.

“What was it, do you suppose, that changed our Chief’s mind?” I asked as we descended the stairs from the first floor to ground level. I’d had time to replenish my bag, but wondered now whether, in civilian attire, I ought to carry it, since it, too, was emblazoned with Bucketeer insignia.

“Nothing ever
changes
Tis’s mind, Mymy, he is the scion of countless generations of civil servants, father and grandfather of legions more who are destined to follow in his well-worn footsteps: as Srafen was often wont to express it, the stolid, unprogressive backbone of our Empire—and an increasingly crippling drain upon its resources.”

At the ground floor we made our way back to the shabby office where Mav obtained permission to visit with the prisoner. We were also given a carbide lamp and admonished to mind the stairs. I ventured reserved agreement with Mav and his Professor when we were once again alone, for it seemed to me that every year there were more and more of us who wore the livery of Parliament, and fewer businesslamn and workers to support us.

“However, you have not answered my question: why, at this particular moment does Tis decide that—” I began.

“It should be obvious, Mymy. There are some few who would prefer the Bucketeers not put up too publicly enthusiastic an inquiry into the death—which many regard as well-deserved and possibly a social benefit—of one they looked upon as a dangerous heretic.” He warned me further of a tricky twist upon the ancient stone-cut stairway.

“Surely you don’t mean to name the Archsacerdot? I had been under the impression that—”

He held up a hand. “Of course not, nor the Lord Ennramo, who was here this morning. Theirs is simply a concern for whatever interests in the matter Crown and Church may have, principally that justice be pursued despite a considerable political pressure to the contrary—have a care here, I’m afraid the steps are actually
damp
—we have
them
to thank that any action is being taken at all.”

Finally, we reached the floor at the foot of the stairs, only to discover that it exuded the unmistakable odor, in concentrated essence, of the watu stalls above. Mav struck a bronze bell attached to the wall, removed and hung his pistol upon a peg beside it.

“Then who is left,” I asked, “powerful enough to exert such an influence?” I shifted uneasily from foot to foot, distressed in the presence of so much chilly moisture.

An unhappy-looking Bucketeer, no doubt assigned this post as punishment, arrived to challenge us from behind a heavy grillework of rusted interwoven iron strapping. Mollified by Mav’s assurances that we were here officially, he threw a switch. Electric candles blazed into the gloom, and Mav extinguished his lamp. The officer turned a key, admitting us among squeaks and groans from the corroded door. The illumination was a questionable blessing, for the nitre and dampness of the floor and walls were rendered by it even more disgustingly perceptible.

“I refer, of course,” Mav whispered as the gaoler shuffled off to find our prisoner, “to the gentlelam you saw in Tis’s office. You know, if I were Battalion Chief, these dungeons would be closed forever—they do our Service no credit.”

“That undistinguished little fellow? I took him for a busybody from the Exchequer—he had the look of an accounting clerk.”

“Which, in a manner of speaking, he is—of voting in the Nazemynsiin, the Middle House of Parliament. He represents our masters, Mymy, the Ministry of Public Safety. And, one would infer from his presence this morning, those worthies now find themselves caught between two stones.”

“Scarcely a pleasant figure of speech, considering the—especially Niitood’s—circumstances.” I looked around distastefully at the moldering drippy walls, imagining, despite myself, small slithery things crawling about in the pools of shadow.

“Nonetheless, it is appropriate. Surely you recall last night’s demonstration outside the Museum?” He led me to a crude and crumbling table apparently used by Bucketeers at mealtimes—although how the lamn could bring themselves to eat down here…Judging by the facilities afforded those on duty, I shuddered to think of the conditions endured by their unfortunate charges.

“I hardly thought that rabble represented
anything
significant.”

“They are the veriest tip of the cactus sprout, or so Professor Srafen feared. You see, while this octary’s progress has brought inestimable benefits to all, most particularly the masses—public sanitation, mass production of launderable clothing, cheap, abundant foodstuffs, and the like—while it promises yet to bring forth many more, there has been slowly gathering among the lower classes an irrational reaction as the memory of what came before begins to fade. The brutish existence led by common people generations ago has begun to acquire a perversely romantic appeal, while the genuine improvements in their lot today are dismissed as trifling and commonplace. Those miseries that still persist, though far less severe than those of nonades before, are nonetheless more vivid to the lower classes than those that no living individual remembers.”

“I’d no idea that Srafen’s interests extended beyond natural philosophy, Mav. Further, I myself confess to a view that the wholesome country life the people led before all this dirty, citified, industrialization—”

Here, Mav arranged his fur in scornful negativity. “Srafen’s interests
were
in natural philosophy, and rhe believed there was a natural philosophy of lamviin behavior and political economy waiting somewhere to be discovered. In a sense, this concern of rhers was essentially defensive, being, as rhe was, the center of so much popular controversy.

“Moreover, there has arisen lately a newer fear that machinery, which has already doubled life expectancies and tripled Foddu’s population—so much for the wholesome country life—will somehow deprive the common laborer of his work. Never mind that ten times as many are profitably employed today than was the case in our great-grandfathers’ time, when most individuals struggled for mean subsistence upon some baron’s lands. And worse, the makers of machinery continue stupidly to emphasize that it will do the work of many, rather than how many it will make new work for. It is the former, not the latter, that the workers hear, believe, and act upon!”

“And what has all this to do with Niitood’s incarceration?”

He drew out his pipe and inhaling fluid, employing the ritual to gather his thoughts. “Consider the position of the Middle House. Until recently, they embraced all modern innovation for a variety of reasons that seemed good to them: it distinguished them from the Upper House, appointed by Their Majesties and thus inclined to a certain conservatism; the tendency of all new discoveries and inventions is to increasingly secularize society and weaken the hold of the Church; and, perhaps most importantly, industrialization is a source of power. There are some radicals, and I’m inclined to think they have Nazemynsiin connections, who speak openly in the streets of seizing factories and turning them over to ‘the people’—which can only mean, of course, the politicians.”

“How horrible!” I replied. “And why are these radicals not down here in gaol?”

“For the same reason the Church is hurrying to understand and accept the fruits of modern natural philosophy—prudence—it is prudent not to make martyrs of a small but potentially deadly enemy. Besides, the Lower House, the Mykodsedyetiin, whose chief concern is civil liberties, protects them, as I trust it would protect
my
right to speak, and yours as well.

“However, Srafen’s death has put the Nazemynsiin in a quandary—or rather punctuated a conflict that already existed. Its members are elected on a district basis by the masses, and the masses, as I have explained, apparently do not share their delight with all that is modern. Thus you and I, dear Mymy, represent an unsatisfactory but necessary compromise between the proper investigation favored by some and whatever substitute would quiet the crowds. Out of uniform, we’ll be less conspicuous, and I fear we shall have to depend on whatever other resources we can muster for ourselves. I suspect even our time will be severely limited. We must—Hallo, here’s Niitood, at last.”

The journalist, appearing battered far beyond whatever the explosion had done to him, limped from a filth-encrusted corridor. The guard was gentle and solicitous with him, which made me proud to be a Bucketeer.

“Mav, old fellow, and Mymy…What in the name of everything wet and slimy are you doing here?” He took a chair and rested weary arms upon the rough table. His bandages were soiled and ragged, his trousers unspeakable. I opened my bag and made to change his dressings.

“I have good news, Niitood, for I have persuaded my superiors that you must be released under bond. Five hundred silver crowns, I’m afraid—I didn’t name the figure. Is there a chance that you can make it?”

The reporter was thoughtful. “More than eight golden triarchs! You know that I cannot. Yet, however flinty-souled they are,
my
superiors may feel the story of a journalist, falsely imprisoned in a sensational murder, might be worth that amount in improved circulation. Can you get me to a telephone?”