“You know a lot of folk here?”
“Why you askin’ that?”
“No reason at all.”
“Don’ be askin’ me stuff you haven't got to know. Come on, them Bowsers has turned off the other way.”
Finn had known Bullies here and there. Few of them, though, had risen to Bucerius’ status as a trader. Most seemed content to use their great strength to make their pay. None-laborer or no-were keen on manners or social grace. Maybe, he thought, it was some sort of cultural trait. Or perhaps if you were that big, you didn't have to be civil at all.
Bucerius became more cautious as they left the side streets and approached the broader avenues. Even in the dark, one could see the houses and shops here were of a grander scale, some three and four stories tall. At the far end of the tree-lined boulevard was the gate of the palace itself.
Finn felt a sense of relief at the sight. Three, maybe four more city blocks, and they would be off the streets, safe from the rabid Bowser bands.
“Huh-uh, keep movin’,” Bucerius said, guessing Finn's thoughts. “You don't be seeing anyone, don't mean they isn't there.”
Finn didn't answer. He followed the Bullie past the avenue into yet another side street, much like the ones they'd left only moments before.
Finally, Bucerius stopped, looked about and sniffed the air. Finn smelled it too. Burned varnish, scorched fabric and smoking wood.
“That balloon. The one that went down… “
“On ahead,” Bucerius muttered. “We was east of it, passed it right by.”
“I know the folk here fear the Bowsers, and rightly so, but I'd think the King's Guards or someone would stop this horror. Why, these ruffians could take the whole town, and no one would stand in their way”
“Stop your gabbin’, human person. This way. Over there!”
Bucerius broke into a run, moving faster than Finn would have imagined of a creature of his size. When he stopped, at last, Finn came to a halt as well, and saw the terrible sight.
There was scarcely any way to tell the thing had been a ship of the air. Fabric, lines, and the wicker basket itself had completely disappeared. The fire had burned with such intense, unforgiving rage, that there was little left to see. Not even embers remained, only scattered mounds of ash.
“It's a death pyre's, what it is,” Bucerius said, great fists clenched at his side. “Didn't no one be gettin’ out of this.”
Finn guessed the gasbag had ignited somehow, then exploded, incinerating the craft and anyone inside in less than a blink. The thing had gone up so quickly it hardly charred the stone walls on either side of the street.
“And no one bothered to help. Not a one of these worthy citizens came out to lend a hand.”
“Lend a hand an’ do what, even if they'd had the guts to try?” Bucerius was clearly on the edge of reason, caught up in fury and despair.
“What you figure they be doin’, sweeping up soot, patching some poor crispy together again? Damn me, if human persons aren't as simple a creature as there be!”
“Me? Why, you're the most vile, crude, offensive being it has been my displeasure to meet. You drive me crazy with your vulgar manner, your vexing ways.”
“Manners, is it? That's your complaint, I don't be actin’ nice?”
Bucerius roared, a great and hearty guffaw that started deep in his chest, burst into life, and rattled windows on every side.
“Manners be what them Bowsers got, with their fine little hats and bow ties. They was bein’ mannerly like, when I stopped ‘em blowing your fool head off. Might be I should've waited a minute or two.”
“I thanked you for that. I don't intend to do it twice. Besides, I think I could have handled the situation myself.”
“How? You gonna hit ‘em with your clock? Scare them louts with your fancy city talk? You gonna-”
“Hold it right there, buckos. Make a move and I'll fair drop you on the spot…”
Finn and Bucerius turned as one, staring at the man who had silently stepped out of shadow, taken them unawares, and now aimed a pair of pistols squarely at their heads.
“Sir, we mean you no harm,” Finn said at once, “we're merely passing by.”
“No, we aren't just passin’ by,” Bucerius said, sending a furious glance Finn's way, “now put those toys down, you ol’ fool, ‘fore I stuff ‘em down your craw.”
“Easy,” Finn said softly, “if I'm not mistaken, that's a very fine pair of matched Wesley-Grovenhalters. Back-action, side-lock. Notch rear sight. Sliding safety catch. Sixty caliber, I doubt I'm wrong in that.”
“Fifty-seven,” said the stranger. “You've got an eye for arms. Not many thugs of your sort can tell a fine weapon from a brick.”
“I assure you we are not-”
“Stop! Another step and you'll be singing with a Coldie choir!”
The man didn't look to be a danger-seventy, eighty if he was a day, and clearly walking with a limp. A pale, stringy fellow with scarcely any flesh on his bones, a bristly chin, and hardly any teeth at all. His eyes seemed enormous behind the thick spectacles that perched on the bridge of his nose. A nose, Finn noted, with a prominent wart on the end. A wart so big, it might well have grown a wart itself.
Looks, though, could be most deceiving, Finn reminded himself. Large-bore weapons had a way of enforcing respect, even among the aged, the ugly and the lame.
“You got no cause to point them things at us,” Bucerius said, with less defiance than before. “We're not a couple o’ thieves. I be a respectable businessman, and this human person's a master of clocks-”
“Lizards,” Finn corrected.
“Whatever. Anyhow, it oughta be clear we isn't no bein’ ruffians or felons of any sort.”
“What you are,” the old man said, the weapons still steady in his hands, “is arsonists, torchers, flat maniacs. Heartless brutes what burns a man's ship of the air, and nearly murders him to boot!”
Bucerius stared. “That thing was yours? And you got out alive? I'm not believin’ that. Anyone was in that thing was burned to a cinder ‘fore they could blink an eye.”
The old man showed them a nasty, double-toothed grin.
“If you was in it when it catches, that's so. If you had the sense to get out, that's something else again. And what's it to you? You care if an old man fries?”
“You got out before it… Damn me, I never thought of that. Who are you, what's your name, then?”
“Devius Lux. What of it?”
“Devius Lux. I heard of you somewheres.”
“I expect you have. Devius Lux, purveyor of antiquities and such. Ancient brushes, curries, combs. Items for those who take an interest in hair care of the past. My shop is next to Gaxiun-Froon, the seer who sells plain water and swears it'll turn any female into a savage of desire.”
Devius frowned. “Who in hell you be, sir? I expect you best tell me that.”
“Bucerius. A merchant like yourself. I be dealin’ in, ah-a number of things. It was the filthy Bowsers what brought you down, not me.”
“They got us too,” Finn added. “We're lucky to be alive ourselves. I feel our fall was cushioned by chickens. Otherwise, we would not have fared as well.”
Devius Lux looked dubious, not wholly convinced.
“You know who I am, all right. That doesn't prove a thing, and I never heard of you. You could be in league with those Bowser kind. No offense, but you're a Newlie yourself.”
“Damn you, then!” Bucerius’ chest began to heave, like an enormous bellows, intent on stirring up a fire.
“Patience,” Finn said again, “those Wesley-Groven-halters can do a great deal of damage, even to a fellow your size.”
“Pistols or no, I won't be insulted by a dried up old man sellin’ combs.”
“They are not everyday combs, they're combs from ancient times.”
“A comb is a comb to me!”
“Stop it, both of you.” Finn stepped between the two, facing the brace of pistols himself.
“Bigotry and bile have no place here. You are both tradesmen, and quite aware that commerce goes beyond racial and political bounds. It's foolish to stand here and argue while a pack of ruffians is very likely on our trail. This is a time when we must all-”